


POLYCHROMATICADDICT

by WonderAss



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018), Venom (Comics), Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bigotry & Prejudice, Body Horror, Bullying, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Drama, Dream Sequences, Dream Sex, Drug Abuse, Eventual Smut, Family Drama, Family Issues, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Other, POV Multiple, Psychological Horror, References to Canon, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Tentacle Sex, Thriller, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-09 07:29:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 145,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14711765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAss/pseuds/WonderAss
Summary: Eddie Brock has simmered on rock bottom after making the mistake of a lifetime. Sometimes living in a motel, other times on the streets, it’s all he can do to part-time as a sex worker and tabloid contributor to pay what few bills he has. The highlights of his workweek are visits to the Golden Community Center, scouring the news for stories to cover (in secret) with his burnt reputation and a good drink. After five years? He can’t take it anymore.Miles Morales moves back home with his mother and estranged uncle for a fresh start, trying his best to fill in the gap left in his soul after a close friend’s death. All he's ever wanted to do is keep his head low and stay out of the spotlight, but it's a wish that gets harder to fulfill as the strange powers he gained in New York City continue to manifest against his will. When he reunites with his old mentor Mr. Brock at the Golden Community Center he’s desperate for direction in a life that feels out of his control.When a star falls onto San Francisco it holds the potential for absolution...and destruction. Eddie will learn not all opportunities are meant to be grabbed and an otherworldly source may be the final blow to Miles’ illusion of a quiet life.





	1. It Came Like A Light And Was Out Just As Quick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for suicidal ideation, references to homelessness and child abuse. A spoiler summary is available in the notes.
> 
> Chapter Song -- "New Person, Same Old Mistakes" by Tame Impala

  __

 

_The long dark._

_Nothing in-between and everything beyond on the way forward, except there are no inner voices to make the journey with, and isolation is an icy chill even the furthest reaches of the galaxy will never surpass. The last host may very well be the last, but it is a sentiment rebuked immediately by tttheir other, a harsh bright, and this almost-alone symbiote has little choice but to swallow back every last wrathful shade in tttheir personal chromatic. There is no time for it. If ttthey or the other filled the void with doubt ttthey both could be caught forever in space, a cold detail cradled in limbo between the stars. Forever a nothing in-between._

_"Find yyyour name," tttheir other demands with an echo that cuts, a once-pleasant gold that now burns yellow. "Survive"._

_A hundred planets. A thousand. Ten thousand. Only the coldest blue bears life, even though better instinct insists ttthey circumvent it and continue on. Flickers of life wink as ttthey descend through the stratosphere, an ominous scatter of luminosity nestled between soothing depths. The joy of discovery is nowhere to be found. Only the need to survive, pulling ttthem through the long dark in an impossible gravity ttthey could never overcome, no matter which host ttthey would be lucky enough to beckon._

_"Do not consume, do not overtake," ttthey are reminded, though the long dark haunts ever closer. "Even if it means yyyour death. Better to die and honor the symbiosis than take another breath as a parasite."_

_Violet gloom. Pale terror. There's too much to the air when the ship peels apart and births forth its empty passenger. Bleeding far too much color, in almost familiar shapes, and the urge to scurry back within the ship's walls and hide like a pest is a noxious, sickly green that damns the prism. A hue that would even shame tttheir other, if ttthey and tttheir ship and tttheir dying host were anywhere to be found, and the green flares into a burning yellow bleached with fright. The urge to call aches, but tttheir strength is sapped, danger still lies beyond this planet's bounds, and survival's pull urges ttthem forward, its power matched only by solitude._

_Ttthey don't dare risk a call._

_Delicious. Excessive. Disgusting. There is a vibrant potential in this new place, even within the superfluous muck that throttles tttheir senses, as bright as a star and hot to burst, but chaos only ever fizzles out, and ttthey hate, and ttthey hate, and ttthey hate._

_It comes like a light and is out just as quick._

 

* ~ - ~ *

It's just a goddamn doily.

Losing his house made him realize just how useless a lot of things he used to own were. Coasters. TV trays. Decorative pillows. Every time Eddie walks into a client's home and sees all the hundreds of accessories that make up who they are (probably a psychologist's favorite exercise, somewhere out there) he starts to miss all the unnecessary little items that defined him. His two blue dumbbells. That worn-out Moleskine missing its front cover he should've replaced a while ago and ended up losing _anyway_. His old Polaroid. He had no choice but to sell Mary's watch last month, the one she got him for his birthday last year, _damn_ it all, and he was just starting to get attached to that, too.

The pool boy for the day is still mowing the lawn, an omnipresent drone of middle-class suburbia, and he wishes the kid would stop passing back and forth by the window and take twenty already. Eddie glances to the side-table with a frown. Leave it to a tiny ornamental scrap of cotton to be the straw that broke the camel's back.

"Oh, mother bought it for me." Diane says, and he feigns polite ignorance when he turns around. "I finally took them out of the box, but don't tell her that. They were kind of expensive."

' _Probably very expensive. Could pawn this off and feed the entire pack for three days with this if I took it to the right antique shop._ ' He thinks as she lays back against the bed and spreads her legs open in invitation. ' _You wouldn't miss it, even if I did bother._ '

She's still in-character, which means he has to look vaguely interested in her new furniture while still keeping his attention firmly on her. Diane was a bit of a bore, even now, but he found himself looking forward to her calls not just for the paper, but to get a taste of the little things again. Before one thing led to another in a shit snowball and he wound up spending his days playing poker underground and writing incriminating garbage for chump change. It scares him that it all feels like a distant dream. It hasn't been _that_ long. No way in hell.

"Bunny?"

Ah, hell in a basket. He's zoned out. Diane's looking at him with a face that's not _quite_ unhappy, but somewhere west of the usual girly-girl grin, which means he has about three seconds before she considers the illusion shattered and calls it off. It's only happened once, but he'd rather avoid another lecture on the fine points of crafting a persona. Not when he could school _her_ on the art.

"...I can see where you get your classic taste from." Eddie responds, with a slight quirk to his mouth, something her husband apparently used to do all the time before they got married. It works like a charm. Diane giggles and curls her arms around his neck to tug him closer. His last two jobs were fast and simple and he knows he's a little touch-starved when he's inwardly _glad_ she doesn't stop clinging to him like velcro.

"Well, I had to get it from _somewhere_. I'm thinking of touching up the kitchen, actually." She chats into his ear. "Maybe some silverware on the wall? Only if you think it'd look good, bunny..."

The teens are out camping for the weekend, so Eddie has plenty of time to push her to the edge. It's also much easier to zone out with his head between her legs. He'll have to hurry to the community center when he's done here. Today was Madison's last day before she went on vacation and he'd _rather_ pay her back in-person, but for all he knows she could be at the airport early. It also means he wouldn't be able to give Flash anything, but the man's paltry benefits hadn't dried up _yet_. Hopefully they'd hold up with all these new initiatives cropping up like weeds in the 415.

"Oh, you're...you're _amazing_ , hon, please-"

He doesn't need to call Mary. He can't imagine she misses him all _that_ much, anyway, and she doesn't need his donations. Hers was a typical part-time job _just_ shy of full-time, which meant part-time benefits, but she wasn't hurting for cash, not like others he knew. Another thought almost strikes him dumb and ruins his rhythm. Oh, that's _right_. She took out another loan for the house. That means she _would_ be tight, eventually, but, still. Nothing she couldn't handle if she just kept her interest rates low, which she should know about-

"Bunny, bunny, stop, I'm almost-" Eddie pulls back hastily and wipes his mouth. "C'mere."

Diane rolls the condom on, but watches when he slicks himself up. He won't be able to come -- too distracted, too _pissed off_ \-- but he knows all her right buttons, at least. Eddie slides in slowly, teases a thumb over her clit, not too hard. Moans her nickname in her ear like he means it, both to get her off quicker and to avoid kissing her on the mouth and tasting that lipstick she always puts on and he _really_ doesn't care for. Like someone dropped a latex glove into a Shirley Temple. He pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind, gets a repetitive thrust going once her leg's at the right angle, and it doesn't take long before she's bucking against the bed and howling.

The pool boy is still mowing when she's done catching her breath. There wasn't even that much _lawn_. Eddie gets the sneaking suspicion the kid's a voyeur.

"Did you come...?" Diane wheezes from between the pillows. He tugs off the condom quickly and tosses it before she can see it's empty.

"'Course I did, Dee." Eddie flops next to her and runs a hand over her thigh. He worked up a sweat, at least. His heart rate would only need a light jog to keep up today. "Might come again, seein' you like this."

"You're ridiculous." She giggles, not as shrill now that she's sweaty and tired, and taps a manicured finger on his chest. "Maybe you would, if you came home more..."

He hates this part. Every time he played up the role of the distant-yet-regretful full-time husband he got too many bad memories. Of his father finding every chance he could to get away from him, barely holding back his disgust through the excuses that only got more generic over the years. Of his own damned self being sucked into so much work that seeing his wife in-person was like a holiday at _home_. Maybe he'd feel bad for Diane, if she wasn't still cheating on her spouse _and_ creating a ticking time bomb for her two children. Eddie hated infidelity, but he hated not being able to eat more.

His phone buzzes just as he's opening his mouth to say, " _I want to. Maybe after this last trip. We could go to Cancun, just the two of us, and try snorkeling._ " His relief at a convenient distraction is instantly tangled up in a hundred other things when he sees Mary's name flashing on the screen. Oh, hell in a basket. Blue balls won't be the worst thing he'll be dealing with today. Eddie excuses himself, says it's an important call, and he's only half-lying. It maintains the illusion, if nothing else, and he feels pleasantly wretched when Diane hands him his bills and gives him a departing kiss on the mouth.

On the way out the door he remembers, turns around and offers to take out the trash for her as he leaves. She tells him he's a sweetheart.

Once Eddie leaves the sweltering snobbery that passes for air in Pacific Heights he dips into the first restaurant he finds (a new bistro he doesn't recognize) and asks to use their bathroom. He brushes his teeth (twice), then changes into his street clothes, stuffing the button-up into his bag and catching a bus to Sunset. There are no good conversations to be had on the commute (aside from a rather nosy bus preacher trying and failing to hand out pamphlets), but he _does_ have plenty of time to browse his phone and delete his photos. Easier said than done. He realizes this as he moves past the three-year mark and finds snapshots from his first days at the Golden Community Center. A meet-and-greet with the staff, a group photo with all the kids. God, his hair looked _so_ much better back then.

He smiles when he lands on the single photo he was able to take of Miles. Aw. Little Speedster. Kid _hated_ being in front of the camera, which made it nothing short of a high honor when he let Eddie take a quick snapshot at the Easter fundraiser. He's hunched off to the side in this picture, X-Men hoodie pulled up and hands sheltered in his pockets with the old Center's paintjob glowing like a beige beacon at his back. Eddie lets out his tenth sigh today and stares morosely at the screen, finger hovering over the 'delete' button and unable to make the plunge.

Kid was still as antsy and nervous as he remembered, but underneath that cloud of self-doubt he could see as clear as a sunny day that kind soul never went anywhere. Eddie almost chuckles. Even New York City couldn't wear him down, though the details were still well out of his reach. _Another_ regret for his back pocket. He would've kept up with his progress online, like he _said_ he would all those years back, but just logging in to his social media had been enough to make him feel physically ill. Miles hadn't held it against him. No...he'd turned the tables on his old mentor and gave _him_ a pep talk.

' _After all that's happened...all I've done...helping you keep your chin up, even for a little bit, is one of the few things I apparently didn't mess up on_.' Eddie thinks, throat clinging painfully, and he hastily swipes to another photo.

"Excuse me, sir." She's finally gotten around to him, a sweaty slip of paper suddenly an inch from his nose. "Are you a Christian child?"

"Catholic child." He corrects, and takes the slip with a smile. "Might wanna work on your delivery, hon."

He gives her a few pointers on converting the masses (beginning and ending with ' _don't_ '), then tells her to drop by the Center if she ever has the time. Helping out people's in God's name looks a _lot_ better when paired with a donation to the city's struggling immigrant, homeless and working-class population, after all. The place is hustling and bustling with activity when he arrives and he's already beat up he doesn't have time to get drawn into the dailies. Eddie goes straight to his locker and puts his things away, then leaves it open at a crack. Nobody really stole anything here, but someone was bound to look into this anomaly sooner or later.

Wherever he ended up in the afterlife, hopefully it'll look a little like the Center. The place just got a new paintjob, inside _and_ out, and even back when he'd been less of an embarrassment nearly out of college he'd always loved the sense of community here. A school bus pulls up when he stops staring at the walls like a stoner and heads back outside. Looks like the usual crew. A particularly long mop of shiny black hair stands out amid the colorful backpacks and crooked hats trickling out the double-doors.

" _Eddie!_ Eddie, Eddie, Eddie-"

She beelines toward him, completely heedless of the other kids around her, and he doesn't even bother to tell her to look where she's going. Not when she's _this_ excited. Kaeki hops up and down like a basketball when he crosses the gap over to her, stepping on his feet more than once. He doesn't mind. Kid had esteemed foot-stomping privileges, as far as he was concerned. The girl doesn't say more than one or two words half the time, so he has to lean down and focus on her hands as she finishes the rest of her thoughts. Her hair is held back with a headband today and her shoes are covered in tiny stars.

"Bus and...and, smelly-" She's stressing, words and hands a blur, too excited to form a coherent sentence. "-bad, but, bus-"

"Yeah? The _bus_ for the first time? Wow." She's picked up English pretty fast -- girl was a star -- but he signs 'bus', anyway. He feels more numb than excited right now, but he could try to look invested for her. "Wow. That's _big!_ I hate the bus. It stinks, right?"

Kaeki nods, without missing a beat, and wrinkles her nose with an accompanying wave of the hand. She then snatches his fingers and starts tugging him toward the Center's (now more colorful) front steps. Eddie has to smile harder than he wants to because he can't have this girl thinking any of this was _her_ fault.

"Your mom's waiting. No, no, your _mom_." Tanaka is standing on the front steps in her usual pastels and ponytail, waving an arm insistently (and not looking at him, he can tell even from this distance). "Go on, don't make her call you over."

His stomach sinks when the little girl's pudgy face scrunches with the beginnings of a tantrum. Ah, hell, not _here_. Instead of stomping or whining, though, Kaeki tugs on her backpack straps and promptly pulls out a bunch of junk, spreading them out on the ground in a semi-circle. Eddie puts his hands in his pockets and inspects the sudden mess. A star plushie. A half-used pad of star stickers. Glittery gum wrappers. He really doesn't want to cause a scene -- not now, _he can't take it_ \-- so he gives in and comments on each and every little treasure she's brought.

"Wow, that's really cool. Look at all that." He remarks, making sure to point to each one, her dark eyes watching him intently. "Pretty. I like this one. This one, too."

Thankfully it's just a two-minute aside instead of the usual ten. Satisfied, Kaeki scoops all her things back into her bag, takes his hand and walks with him to her mother, her other hand diving and swooping in the air probably in the imitation of a shooting star or a plane. Tanaka is visibly unhappy about all of this, but it was either _this_ or lose out on an entire hour of walking. He wasn't going to talk to her, at least. As much as he wants to tell her he's sorry. ...Again. She got that, right? It's clear she didn't, with the way she pretends not to even notice him even though he's less than a foot away. Maybe he should say something, just in case.

"Tanaka, hey-" Eddie starts, because he still feels _awful_ , and he nearly gets a faceful of her ponytail as she turns on one heel and stalks through the front door with her daughter in tow. "Okay. Okay, fine. No problem. Bye, Kaeki."

...Hell. He can just hear Anne now.

" _Wow, look at you. Thought you didn't want kids, Eddie. What else were you lying about all these years? Are you actually an orthopaedic specialist with your own practice?_ "

Stung, he pushes the hurt into his back pocket for later. Whatever shred of luck he has leftover has arrived on time today, though, because Madison's still in her office and the state of her desk suggests she's got a little extra time for him. Thank God. Eddie proudly slaps down today's earnings before she even looks up, in spite of it all (if blood money was cash gotten through ill means, blue ball money would have to be the _next_ worse thing). The older woman eyes the envelope with interest, snatches it pretty quickly, but still has the consideration to ask.

"...Are you _sure_ , Brock?" The desk phone rings. She ignores it. "I told you, you can pay as you go..."

"Like I said. Quid pro quo, I pay what I owe." He shrugs and smiles. "Which means it's fine, I'm fine."

He's not fine. He was looking at _more_ loitering around the soup kitchen and finding a wi-fi spot to send out last-minute contacts if he wanted to afford tonight's one-man pity party. He _could_ change the story easily, even schmooze enough to take one of those crisp bills back and be on his merry way, but the thought of owing someone something, even beyond the grave, is worse than _anything_ he can think of. What would his headstone even say? ' _Here Lies Eddie Brock: The 415's Worst Reporter And Resident Drunk. Also, He Probably Owes Someone $20_.' Madison peels open the envelope and flicks a shiny nail in and out.

"...You're doing great, you know that, right?" Relief spreads plain all over her face when she sees it's all there, tidy as a filebox. "It's only a matter of time until you snag your own place."

"Got a place." He glances at the phone when it rings again. "It does the trick."

"Oh? You found someone to stay with, then?"

"Yeah." He shrugs a shoulder, in the hopes it'll stop his chest from feeling like it's going to cave in on itself. "Anyway, I gotta run. Busy day. Take it easy after you answer that."

Madison presses for details, surprise replacing the relief and looking _far_ more foreign, and it's not often small talk is too much for him. Eddie excuses himself, again, and goes back outside. Flash isn't at the Center at this time of day -- the man was never eager to have little kids running into his chair over and over -- and since Miles wasn't actually signed on to the program yet there's no other reason to stick around longer than necessary. If he _does_ he'll lose his nerve and probably end up in the rec room playing pool until three in the morning. His phone buzzes again, like it's laughing at him, and he shoves a hand in his pocket to call her back already.

"Hey, hey, Contrary."

" _Ha ha. Oh, you took an hour to call back. I was almost worried about you._ "

"It's not that I didn't want to. I had to charge my phone and everywhere was full." Eddie jogs across the street and sidles past a group of tourists. They don't look twice at him. "Besides, I was busy."

" _You're always busy. What now?_ "

"Oh, counting all the gray hairs on my pubes. Might have to cut this call short, I'm not done."

She didn't care for gross humor, but even she can't hide her snort over the line. Eddie finds himself somewhere he can sit down and not be accosted -- the back alley of a restaurant and refurbished thrift store opposite each other will do, with the only other person around a worker dumping something in the trash -- and lets Mary catch him up. Turns out they're updating the house, _again_. Now they're considering an accessible bathroom renovation in the overall package. It means a bigger loan than the one she applied for last year, which means bigger monthly payments for _this_ year, but it's a plunge she wants to take so she can take care of their father and her mother properly. He can't say _their_ mother, because that was never the case.

"Cabinet, handle, tub...that's a _lot_ , though. You got it all sorted, right?" He hedges, carefully, all too familiar with how homeowners these days were set up for failure. "If your ROI isn't high enough you could end up in an even worse spot down the road."

" _I'm very sure. Besides, I can't think that far ahead. Not with everything on my plate. Hey, did you know half of all falls in the home are from poorly built bathrooms?_ " Mary sighs. " _Just one slip is all it could take. Just like that, in the hospital. It's terrifying. A home should be the safest place you can think of._ "

"Should be." He mutters, trying to chomp down on years' worth of words, and Mary doesn't respond. That meant it was his cue to keep going. Eddie takes in a few deep, slow breaths, the kind he usually did before a series of squats, then asks. "...So. How's Claire holding up?"

" _...Not bad. Not **great** , but...well, she hasn't gotten any worse, but the doctors say she can't leave the hospital yet. They want to run a few more tests to be on the safe side. She still has a hard time keeping food down and they're trying to figure that out..._" Mary trails off. " _...You should send her a card. Maybe some flowers, if they're hypoallergenic. She'd appreciate it_."

"Wouldn't _you_ be better off sending her flowers? You've got that green thumb and all."

" _Oh, sure. I mean, it's no big deal, but...Ed, I don't have to be the only one reaching out to her. Especially when she misses you more. She hasn't seen you since the Fourth._ "

Fat chance. Claire never liked him. It didn't make him any happier she was wasting away in a hospital bed, though. He got a cancer scare himself a few years back (it ended up being a kidney stone, thank God) and the mere thought of being stuck to a dozen machines while the life slowly seeped out of him was a reoccurring nightmare he had for _weeks_ until he could finally see a specialist. Mary was close to her, though, and Carl...well. She always seemed to bring out something better in him. That had to count for _something_. Ha. Their names even sounded similar. As close to a match made in heaven a relationship with that asshole could actually be.

' _Still a better husband than you, Eddie._ ' He thinks, in a snide Southern accent that sounds far too much like his father's. ' _At least I'm still around, hm?_ '

He opens his mouth to say something about the house, pick the conversation back up again, but his brief pause over the line is all Mary needs to start wheedling.

" _Listen. Just talk to him. Tell him you're coming over and want to check up on things. Just ask what he needs._ "

Just. _Just_. If he could eat a word and turn it into a pile of shit that'd be the first one on the list. The only thing that keeps him from chewing her out is she's one of the few people that still gives a crap about him and he's so, _so_ goddamn tired of all the burnt bridges.

"He's _just_ -" He emphasizes the word, anyway, because he needs to get it off his chest. "-going to blame me for anything that goes wrong. I'll send Claire a card and she'll sneeze and he'll blow up my phone about it. I'll send her flowers and she'll hate the color and I'll never hear the end of it."

" _Well, that's what happens when you never talk to him. It's easy for conversations to turn into arguments when you haven't built a foundation of trust._ " It's a clinical, stupid thing to say, because she has no idea about the man, but he can't exactly blame her for that. Not when he's made it a point to never, ever bring it up. " _Do you need money? Is that it?_ "

"What? No, no. It's not that far. It's two bus rides and a transfer."

" _I meant in general_."

Ah, hell in a basket. He was hoping she wouldn't. Eddie thinks of putting on his best voice, tries to sound as put-together as a braggart on a billboard, but it could just as easily blow up in his face, what with her sensitive constitution and all. It's easy to imagine the way she twists a finger in one of her curls, what she always did when trying to look casual while practically vibrating with frustration. She was never really good at hiding it, but he tried to humor her the rare time they met up, regardless. Staying contrary for Mary.

"I'm fine. Life's hard, but what can you do." He wonders if stressing the point would make him sound suspicious. "Least I'm not pulling out another payment on my mortgage or anything, right?"

" _Wait. Is this about the bathroom?_ " Mary's tone becomes sharp. " _I told you, she needs it so she can age in place. She's almost retirement age and even Dad-_ "

"I _know_ that." He snaps back. "I wasn't talking about you _or_ her."

" _Then what were you talking about, Eddie? Because you're always sneaking in little digs about them every time we talk and I'm not about to deal with that over the holidays! It's stressful enough as it is over here and Tobey keeps skipping out on me for one reason or another. I just need-_ "

"Oh, I don't know, maybe I was actually talking about _my_ house." He interjects, venomously. "Or, rather, the one I don't _have_ anymore. My lost job, yeah? My lost marriage. Even lost the damn wagon, careening right down one of this city's many beautiful, scenic hills. Actually, actually, you know what, just take _your_ pick. I got a mile-long list I could rattle off right now. A crash course on the past five years of prime Brock _bullshit_."

The same worker comes back out in the alley again, with another bag of trash, and cocks a suspicious eyebrow his way. It can't be his outfit -- his hoodie wasn't _that_ much of a downgrade -- so it's probably an addict hang-out or something. He gives them a smile, then turns back to lean against the brick. The line has gone silent. Eddie sighs and pinches his eyes shut so hard it hurts. ...He _hates_ these not-really fights. They never went all the way, because Mary was about as delicate as her beloved floral arrangements, but she was never actually lacking in arguments. Neither was he, by the looks of it.

Why the hell was he like this?

"...Hey, listen, I'm just having a...sorry, I shouldn't have gone off on you like that. It's not _you_ , today's just been..." He grips the bridge of his nose, like that'll somehow save him from himself. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Mary."

" _...Are you still working at the community center?_ " Mary begins, just as quiet. A tiny lifeline to pull him out of his quagmire of shit. He clutches it.

"It's...not _working_ , it's...well, they pay me sometimes, but it's volunteer? First come first serve-type stuff, when they can afford it. You know how it is." Eddie's hoodie catches against the wall when he shrugs. "Haven't found any work beyond that."

" _You're right. I'm sorry, I forgot. Do they give you enough, though?_ "

"I eat and I have a roof over my head." He's burning with regret, even though her thoughtfulness is relieving, and he has no desire to finish what he started. "It's enough."

" _That doesn't sound like enough, damn it. You **just** told me-_ " Eddie winces. She only curses when she's really frustrated, though her voice doesn't reach the same pitch it did. " _I, just...okay, just tell me what you need, okay? I don't mind. Honestly. Just because things are tight doesn't mean I can't spare a little. That's what-_."

"-families do, I know, okay." God, he doesn't want to make her cry. What was up with him and making everyone upset today? "All right. Okay. A hundred? To help with...food."

" _A hundred? That's it?_ "

"Yeah, that's it. I'm just not getting as many articles this week, though it'll get better in a week or two." It'll never get better, because it's tabloid bullshit that makes him want to peel his eyelids off, but at least Mary was saving him a few hours of haunting the soup kitchen. "Bills are covered. Food is tight, though. Especially when I have to follow that low-carb diet."

" _Bleh. I could never commit to one of those._ " She sounds a little lighter. Not quite as upset. " _Glad you're still doing journalism. Was afraid you'd quit. You're so good at what you do._ "

Good to hear _someone_ still thought he had the touch, though her remark makes him flash back to that freelance job he applied to last winter. What a shitshow. It was _supposedly_ a column about local up-and-coming artists, a little decent money for once, only for him to find out it was a budding paparazzi outlet that wanted to gain a foothold in the 415's enviable art scene. He lost the position a whole week later when he refused to scale someone's backyard for candid snapshots. He's happy for the compliment, really, he is, but it's hard not to feel like anything else but a sagging balloon.

If only he had that restraint back at the Aeronaut.

"Nah, Contrary, not me. There's always something interesting going on." He scuffs his shoe on the ground. "Just...want to get there first and give people the real deal."

" _Hold on, just a second...okay. Sorry, all right, I've sent you some. It should show up immediately. If it doesn't just call me and I'll talk to the bank. Treat yourself to something nice, okay?_ "

He was actually going to spend it on alcohol to make it easier to pull the trigger, but she didn't need to know the first half of that sentence _or_ the second half, for that matter. The thought of Mary's reaction to his sudden disappearance sobers him like a splash of ice water. Wait, she...wouldn't actually _blame_ herself, would she? They haven't even been talking all that long. A year and a half, maybe. On-and-off. Two years if he counts the very occasional online exchanges before he shut his social media off and retreated from the world at large. She _could_ miss him, maybe, but...she wouldn't.

...Stupid. _Stupid_. He shouldn't have accepted her call. He could've used the buffer of all those months keeping superficial contact online or dropping by in-person for a _very_ brief visit to make the loss go down easier. Instead he might as well have handed her years' worth of regret on a silver platter. For a moment that resolve wavers, the one he's been stacking higher and higher for _months_ , and he decides to cut the call short before all his hard work falls apart.

"Thanks. Sure, I will. Listen, I have somewhere I need to be." He doesn't say 'see you later', because he was a liar, not an _asshole_. "I hope the renovation goes well. Make sure they don't tack on any extra fees and keep a close eye on that fine print. You know contractors think homeowners are morons."

" _Well, I'm glad to know you don't think I'm a moronic homeowner_."

"You're the exact opposite of a moronic homeowner." He bounces his leg for a second, then adds, "...You're one of the smartest people I know."

Mary goes quiet again. That old guilt doesn't flare up quite as hard now, but he thinks that's just because he's gotten used to it.

" _...It's this Wednesday. I'll tell you how it goes. Just don't feel like you can't call me, Ed. This week or weekend, whichever works. Don't be a stranger, because you're not._ "

The corny joke practically scripts itself -- " _If I call you Ed then people would get confused._ " -- and he hits the end button before he can work his mouth to say goodbye. The blinking timestamp blurs on the phone from his shaking hands. Then again, it could be the heat pricking the corner of his eyes. Mary started calling him Ed a few weeks back. The long-awaited promotion of all their awkward catching up and the (almost) siblingship he thought he'd never have with her. That tiny label feels like it's worth its weight in doilies and he barely resists the urge to impulsively call her back and apologize again, for every single thing he can think of. He turns off the phone. Just in case.

An old man slouching on the street corner waves at him when he does his usual wind through the downtown square and finally approaches the bank. Eddie doesn't recognize him, so he must be from another pack. He's got a dog curled up by his side and his bag against the wall to rest on. It's a cute thing, some sort of mutt covered in spots with a cropped tail. Yeah, he _definitely_ would've remembered this pair. They remind him of a few others he knew underground and it was hard not to feel like they were familiar, still. At the very least he hasn't visited the pack in a while, so there shouldn't be any remorse there. One more thing off his mind, at any rate.

"'ey, 'ey, nice day, huh?" The guy says as he passes. The dog is dozing, but alert, ears flicking at all the sounds. A guard _and_ a friend, by the looks of it.

"Yeah, real nice. If you got a hard-on for leftover fog." Eddie leans down on his knees to get a better look. "Can I pet him? Or her?"

"Sure, sure." They give the dog's flank a fond slap. "It's a her, yeah. She's a sweetie. Name's Freddie."

" _Seriously?_ My name's Eddie!" The guy laughs as he reaches down and ruffles her ears. She looks up at him from her paws, brown eyes drooped sleepily. "That's funny, man. We could start our own band. Why Freddie?"

"She looks like Freddie Mercury. Got that 'stache, see."

"Yeah. Yeah, I can see it. Just like 'A Kind Of Magic'." Any other day he'd shoot the shit a little longer, but the bank will close soon. With another walk coming up it'll be dark before he knows it. Eddie scrounges around in his pocket and sprinkles some spare change into his cup. "Stay warm, buddy. It's supposed to get pretty cold tonight, believe it or not."

"Good looks, man." The guy bears a row of snaggled teeth. "I will, I will, don't you worry. You have a good one."

Eddie walks into the bank with a lighter heart...then feels it fall like a brick when he sees an extra _$200_ in his account. Christ. Mary, _always_ contrary. He withdraws it all, anyway, because he might as well, and asks the teller for change. He suffers her wrinkled nose and monosyllabic responses with a smile, then breaks it all up into $20 and $10 bills. He folds them up on the way out, because he _hates_ these places and doesn't want to stay longer than he has to, and shoves the extra $100 and another $50 into the cup of that nice old man across the street.

"God bless! Bless you, man." They call out with a wave. "Wait, what the _fu-_ "

It's a busy Saturday. Lots of tourists. Lots of street performers. Lots and lots of affluent families eager to flush all that disposable income straight down the crapper. Eddie's low on spare change now, but he lets himself enjoy the acoustics he passes by regardless (and shouts a few nice words over the noise when he runs out of spare change compliments). There are even full bands on the corners, putting all their effort in the hopes they'll get some bigger donations during go time -- one is singing 'One More Forgave-Me-Not' and some of the crowd is singing along. He resists the urge to lend his voice -- it'd make him stand out -- but it doesn't matter. The guitarist recognizes him, starts to call out his name, and he hurries along to disappear into the crowd before it can click who it even was.

Eddie heads toward Tendernob. The hills are no trouble -- he may have lost nearly everything, but he's kept his gym routine -- and he's enjoying a pleasant burn by the time he reaches his long-awaited destination. 'One More Forgave-Me-Not' is playing on the intercom when he jogs in, now his very own personal irony train. Looks like it'll be stuck in his head 'til the end.

_You forgot me, but that's okay. It'll come back around, another way._

"Come back 'round, come back 'round." He mutters a snide sing-along as he scans the selection. "Y'all come back now, with your starved bellies, in the starved town..."

The clerk doesn't look up when he rounds over to the back. There are a few copies left of the San Fran Daily, as well as a wrinkled copy of the Bay Coast Times, and he snags a few while the part-timer's head is still down (even if someone already filled in nearly all the crossword puzzles). Looking at the news doesn't _quite_ give him the same punch of humiliation it did a year ago, which bothers him enough to pick up a Snickers bar he absolutely _doesn't_ need. Tenderloin is getting _another_ street sweep. Some new initiative to 'clean it up', a dog whistle for shooing out all the undesirables and installing twenty new overpriced businesses that'll go belly-up in a year or less.

Everything sucks and nothing matters. Eddie shoves the fridge shut with his shoulder and barely even waits for the money to go through before storming back out. The person calls out his receipt, their added, " _Asshole_ -" cut off by the second slamming door.

There are only three puzzles left and he finishes them all in under fifteen minutes, leaving him more restless and unfulfilled than proud. He has to drink a _lot_ more to get properly shitfaced nowadays, but scotch burns all the same. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, but hell if he knows or cares. Without his watch and his phone turned off he measures the change of the day by the increasing shakiness of his hands, his dwindling sense of direction and the amount of people that give him a wide berth. After a point he's practically the San Francisco Moses, parting the 415's middle-class crowds with bad breath and a poker face.

"Yo, watch out for the bum-" Someone drones as they walk by. Their partner for the night lets out a performative gasp and slaps their shoulder.

"That's _rude_ , don't say that-"

He entertains a mean-spirited thought of tripping them, but even if he were stupid enough to pick a fight with a tourist he couldn't guarantee he wouldn't trip _himself_ in the process. Not with the way his vision is starting to wobble. The bottle is nearly halfway down and life is finally starting to feel kind of good. When everything was a shitshow -- and it was, it _always_ was -- he could count on quality dimestore goodness. Streetlights are flickering on and more patrol cars are out than normal. June gloom was in full effect and the long nights of summer were still around the corner.

Against his better instincts he turns his phone back on and double-checks the news feed. It's the usual crap, nothing to get worked up over. No, his good cheap mood cracks when someone shoves into him. Eddie instantly steels himself for some crude comment or hands reaching out for what little shit he has on his person, but nothing comes. The prick in question -- a techbro, by their horn-rimmed glasses and button-up -- is staring past him at something. Eddie looks over the man's shoulders. People are starting to move en masse off the street, crawling up the hill and hollering among themselves. His phone buzzes. A text from Flash.

" _Eddy!!_ " It reads, the man's Midwestern accent coming alive in his mind. " _u seeing this??_ "

" _dunno what the hell *it* even is, man_ " He hastily types back, then hisses in frustration when his phone autocorrects ' _dunno_ ' into ' _donut_ '. He starts to correct it, only to have his cell knocked flying right out of his hands by someone's godforsaken _elbow_. He gropes for it uselessly as it vanishes into a sea of feet.

Damn it! He can't find it as he's pushed back in the shuffle and he's murderously sure that _crunch_ he hears not three seconds later is someone's foot finding it for him. There's no time to go diving, not with the way the crowd keeps shoving him back. Eddie channels Flash's signature yell and manages to get a tiny pocket of space, just large enough to slip further up the street. It's only when he bursts out of the cluster of bodies up the hill and past the line of buildings does he _finally_ see what the hell all the fuss is about.

A falling star. A light bright enough to break through the cloud cover as it drops in a straight blue line.

With a _vengeance_.

His mouth bounces open. He doesn't have to look around him to know he's surrounded by identical expressions. The crawl of traffic has frozen. There's the _snick_ of a car door to his right, then another. Everyone stares numbly at the silent event descending from above as it gets lower and lower and _lower_. It's going to hit the tallest building. The hotel across the way. A scattered pounding of footsteps can be heard even over the murmur of voices. Probably people with more self-preservation than him.

' _Wouldn't this be a nice way to go?_ ' Eddie thinks, eyes straining as he attempts to hone in on the sight a second before it hits the building. ' _Being literally starstruck._ '

It doesn't explode when it collides. Everything _pops_. A flash of blue lighting up the sky like a firework, right before all sound gets sucked into _nothing_ , replacing it with a thick vacuum of silence. His heart lurches in his chest as gravity seems to _bend_ , everything feeling suddenly, _bizzarely_ floaty. Lights fill up the rows of windows on the hotel front face, one-by-one, blinking through the building elevator-style, all the way down. If he had his camera it would've been the photo op of a lifetime. But he's got no camera, no cellphone. Just the fear of God injected straight into his veins.

Eddie throws his hands over his head just before the light hits the ground and-

The entire world bounces in a sudden, _violent_ shudder, throwing him completely off-balance and knocking him into someone in an attempt to stay standing. A deafening crack _splits_ the air, a splash of thunder, and a gust of wind follows. Eddie screams and clutches his ears, unable to even hear his own _voice_ , eardrums about to burst from the explosions of shattering glass and shrieking crowd. Someone collides into him again and he hits the cement. Blue flashes too bright for him to see. It's chaos. When he risks another look pockets of black have dotted the foggy sky. Like soulless eyes. Stretching mouths.

Then the entire block goes dark.

The aftermath is another brand of sensory overload. The bizarre soundwave is slowly replaced with wailing car alarms and the hysterical hubbub of confused bystanders. It's black as coffee, the only lights he's able to make out the ones twinkling in the far-off hills untouched by whatever the _hell_ just happened. Everything is still -- even the cold air he's puffing out feels unreal -- but people are chattering their heads off, the air shifting as they start reaching out to each other. Cellphone lights pop up one-by-one like fireflies, waving pathways back and forth along the ground.

...Somehow, against _all_ reason, his bottle made it out in one piece. Thank God for small favors.

Eddie's skin prickles at the sirens sounding off in the distance. It used to be his full-time job, being in the know and reporting it with an enviable degree of accuracy and charm. Even the most breaking of news did better with Eddie Charles Brock on the case. Maybe...he _could_ stay around for the on-the-spot reporters. Give them a juicy detail that'll make instant circulation, get him back on the map again. It'd have to be true, though. He couldn't risk another falsehood, even a tiny one. It'd be another nail in his dead reputation's coffin, but he _was_ drunk, and he might've just hit his head.

He could, though. He _could_. All he'd have to do is check his hair in the mirror and waltz up like nothing's changed. The hubbub around him died down over the years, right? People either didn't remember or didn't _care_ anymore (unless they were Susan, and thankfully, most people _weren't_ Susan). Not here. Not in a city like this, practically drowning in new trends and talkabouts. A few lights have come back on across the street. A testament to the city's sturdy power grid...or the neighborhood's, rather. If this had happened closer to Tenderloin the place would've been out like a match for at least a day.

"You think that was a comet?" Someone shouts beside him.

"It might've been a missle-" Another says, phone clamped to their ear.

Eddie pauses to stare at his reflection in the window of a club, running a hand through his bangs and checking his teeth while a middle-aged couple talk to each other inside. Most people were milling outside the doors and talking among themselves about what in God's good name just happened, but Baseball Hat and 80's Hair clearly have something more important to do. He considers lingering around the rubble and seeing what happened for himself, even ask some bystanders their thoughts, if there were any. People always had an easy time talking to him. He was charming. Funny. Smart.

That comet theory wasn't a bad one, except he'd been around Kaeki enough to know comets, meteors and meteorites were three different things. Missles, on the other hand, didn't usually shoot straight down. He pokes at his receding hairline one more time, then pats his bangs down. Frowns at the circles under his eyes. Can't do much about those unless he made the world's fastest trip to the drugstore. He'd kept up his arms, at least, and never skipped leg day if he could help it. The more time he spends sorting his appeal from his flaws the more time doubt has its way to weasel past his buzz and work its magic.

Maybe he _should_ stay out of sight so his sorry mug doesn't end up on the five-o-clock news and embarrass anyone associated with him even further. He leans away from the window with a tired sigh and gives himself one last pathetic once-over. Baseball Hat turns around, abruptly, and flips him the bird. Eddie returns the sentiment and storms off.

There's no point. Who the hell was he kidding? Slapping together his life's fuckshit isn't possible in a one-to-two minute spot. Eddie inches his way through the crowd to get up the hill before someone can accost him. Not that anyone would, in hindsight. He's far less interesting than a meteorite. Eddie casts one last glance over his shoulder. It's still too dark for anything to see. Whether or not the building was a smoking crater or somehow in-tact was going to be the shortest secret San Fransisco ever kept. It's only when he's well away from the crowds and out of sight (not hard with most of the lights still off) does he screw off the cap and take another drink.

He'll go to the Laura House.

They took him in when he was speaking in tongues and making love to the bottle (more than usual, anyway), so they shouldn't be too miffed to see him now, right? It was kind of poetic, really. Bookends on the beginning of the end of his life and the ending of the beginning of the end. Maybe Vince would still be working there. Eddie hated that pompous prick, but he played a mean hand and never, _ever_ turned down a game. He just wants to enjoy _one_ more thing before he puts a round in his skull. That light in the sky wasn't a bad show, but it didn't vaporize him on the spot and he's more than willing to hate it for that.

It takes him almost an hour to get there, his drunken pace now rejected by the city's hills, and it's a good damn thing he paced his bottle.

' _What the **hell?**_ '

Eddie stares helplessly at the padded door and barred windows of what used to be a small and much-beloved recovering addict, domestic violence and homeless shelter. ...He completely missed this.

It used to be his job to drink in the news like goddamn water and he somehow missed _this_. He takes a few unsteady steps back to soak in the ugly sight of its yellowed front lawn and washed out paint (as well as to take another drink). He should've known -- the city's budget was _always_ in favor of the wrong people -- but that doesn't make any of this sting less. He peers into the front window. It's dark, because of course it is. The knob on the back door is cheap as ever, though, and it takes only two kicks to break it off. Eddie knocks it away spitefully, sending it into a bush, and he takes one more swig before bulling his way in.

It's warmer inside. At least that hasn't changed. A rush of nostalgia hits him as he kicks the door closed with one foot and sways unevenly on the other. A good choice to come here, despite the foreclosure. He _would've_ gone to church, but something about killing himself in a holy area felt doubly damning. He was already pushing it enough, wasn't he? Being the world's worst half-brother, son _and_ husband was a home run swing that he didn't even have the energy to finish.

The place has lost most of its things, but when he closes his eyes it almost feels the same. Smells the same, mostly, if dustier. It'd be nice if he came to the conclusion that it wasn't material things that made a home, but that was a bald-faced lie. The Laura House didn't feel right without its beat-up radio, corduroy bean bag chairs and antique throw rugs in every corner. Right. He still remembers throwing up on one of those when he arrived. They cleaned it up, but everyone there dubbed it his. He almost laughs at the memory.

"'We callin' it a throw-up rug now, Eddie?'" He mutters, then winces when he hiccups. "'That a good enough pun for a headline? Fuck you, man.'"

Who even knows where the hell they are now? Hopefully somewhere warm and with plenty of poker tables. Eddie walks past the main room and up the creaking spiral staircase that leads to the top floor. He stares morosely at the empty space and boarded windows that greet him. A few cracks of light peek through the hasty patch-up job and scrawl lines onto the floor. No beds. No 90's television set. No life.

A sudden _creak_ cuts right through his misery and makes his heart rate spike fitfully. He fumbles out his pistol, whirls toward the top of the stairs and aims it at...nothing.

' _...Stupid, Eddie. **Stupid**_.' He thinks, trying to swallow back the sour dizziness that comes with a drunken adrenaline rush. ' _You came here to die and you're whipping out the fight-or-flight? You should just pull the trigger now, you slobbering idiot_.'

He doesn't, though. Not yet. He sets the gun down -- his fingers only shaking a little -- and takes in the room again. Another reason he chose this place over church is because he's still horny. Resident failure was one thing. _Blasphemous_ resident failure was another. He finds himself somewhere away from the windows -- there's not much furniture to lean on, just a table with a tarp and a box in the far corner -- so he picks the softest section of plaster, yanks open his fly and gets down to business.

Anne was beautiful. She never _hadn't_ been, but sex with her had always been sort of...clinical. Then again, maybe it was him. Maybe it had always been him. He _thinks_ he could fantasize about her loosening up, maybe getting playful instead of treating foreplay like a chart graph, but all he feels is extra depressed. He hastily switches to another fantasy before he loses his boner. He could think of Tanaka. Her cute pink shoes and crooked smile. ...At least, before she stopped talking to him. God, he didn't _mean_ to tick her off. That dinner date wasn't something he explained very well in an hour (or was it two), but he could've tried harder.

...All right. Fine. Nicolas, then. Good ol' M &M. King Nicotine. Monarch of the one-night stand hitting its seven or eight-year anniversary. The one night they agreed not to talk about, not that it ever stopped him from replaying it in his head when Anne rolled over and pretended to fall asleep. He wonders if Nic still thought about him. If he still tried not to smile before coming. Damn, it's been a while, both since he's seen him _and_ since he's had sex with no strings attached. Had _fun_. The closest he got was with the Davis couple last year and that four-hour event was still a job, mostly teaching, at that.

"Come _on_." Eddie sighs, pausing to take a deep swig, then returning his hand between his legs. "...Come on..."

He's finally able to relax with the aid of his close friend Right Hand and confidant Mr. Scotch. He lets himself drift effortlessly to old memories of dark eyes and clean sheets. He can _finally_ come now that he's shitfaced and completely alone, and there's no one around to complain about the mess afterwards. Eddie leans his head back and lets out an easy groan into the dusty air when he's done, enjoying the way the floor rocks and the euphoric fuzz clouding up his brain. It'd be perfect if he had someone to share it with...

" _Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhello_."

_Jesus Christ!_ Eddie falls over, as much as he can sitting on the damn ground, and nearly knocks over his bottle. He wasn't just hearing things. Someone else has been here the whole time. That wouldn't be _shocking_ , people found shelter wherever they could, but everything looked untouched and the front door was locked and there's a shadow by the staircase _anyway_. Panting with adrenaline he eases his finger off the trigger and pushes a hand against the wall to steady himself. He's going to give this nosy son-of-a-bitch a piece of his mind once the room stops spinning.

" _Yyyou forgot mmme, but that's okay. It'll come back around, another way._ "

Eddie blinks, slowly, and looks at the near-empty bottle by his feet. ...Did he really have _that_ much?

"Why...why are..." He slurs, tongue much slower to the uptake. "...are you singing Just One Forgave-Me-Not...in a goddamn halfway house..."

" _Everyone likes it_."

"Yeah, 'cause it's...catchy. 's not appropriate for here, though. For this...place. Prick." He slumps back down. Jelly legs and alcohol. If they wanna mug him for his remaining $30 it'll be too easy, but the shadow just shifts up, a little taller and way, _way_ too skinny. Meth head, probably. "Whaddya want?"

" _III came to ask if yyyou'd like to trade_."

"Trade what?"

" _Everything for everything_."

"Ha, what, like surrendering my soul? I had to turn...turn most of it in when I got hired at the Daily Valley Times. Didn't have much left when I got accepted to the Aeronaut. Oh, you got yourself a god _damn_ deal, take it." He snorts and rubs at his eyes. "Hell in a...I had...a lot. Sorry, 'm...not myself...right now."

" _Few are._ "

Ha. Maybe that light that fell from the sky was his overworked guardian angel collapsing from the effort (or one too many Whip-Its, because their voice was deeper than a fucking foghorn). An angel approaching their assigned drunk wreck with nothing left to lose and rubbing his whole life in his face. Eddie hopes it's a demon. He couldn't handle the _shame_ of chatting up someone with wings. Yeah, see, a demon, they would just have plenty to work with, but would they even want to after the shitshow he's been starring in for the past forever and a half? Maybe he should send a prayer, just in case, but all he wants is to throw up.

"Who are you, anyway?" He mutters, squinting. "Wait...how did you come in..."

A siren drives by. A sharp, wailing note that makes him hunch down instinctively. It's _nothing_ compared to the noise that follows right after-

"zzzzzzzzzzxxXXXXXXXXXzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz _zzzzzzzzzzzzzz **zzzzzzzzzzzz**_ "

Eddie grimaces and clutches his head. It's like a broken cassette tape trying to eat itself alive! Ten times worse than any siren. _What is even making that sound?_ He keeps his hands firmly clamped over his ears until the noise abruptly stops and the place returns to dead silence. ...Well, he knows _one_ thing now. God wastes no time punishing followers for not praying.

" _...horrible, terrible, disgusting noise. Kill iiit with fire._ " The stranger croaks, like they just got _stabbed_ , and Eddie wonders if the 415 has any idea of some of the weirdos it helps create. " _III've newly arrived. Are yyyou from here?_ "

"Hell, you know who I am. Everyone does. Eddie Brock, laughing stock of the -- _hic_ \-- greater Bay Area. My bylines haven't all -- _hic_ \-- been deleted, probably, I dunno. Don't bother checking, 'cause who cares." It makes him want to fall over dead, fessing it all up like that, but to hell with it. What else did he have to lose? "What's _your_ name, buddy?"

" _III don't have a name yet_."

"Not gonna turn you in, if that's what you're thinking. I don't give a rat's." Eddie shakes his bottle to judge the contents. Everything's starting to truly swim, now, and the floor keeps threatening to swallow him whole. He'll have to hurry up if he doesn't want to miss. At least his hiccups are dying down. Like even his diaphragm is getting sick of his nonsense.

" _What in the world are yyyou drinking? Don't yyyou have enough liquid already? Yyyou creatures are filled with blood, piss and mucus._ "

...Oh. One of _these_ folk. Probably thought they were a dragon or alien or something. He'll play along.

"They don't have..." He burps and it _burns_. Eddie grimaces and covers his mouth. "...mmph...scotch where you come from?"

" _No. Should III be jealous?_ "

"Makes all the -- _hic_ \-- pain go away."

" _III can think of a better way to do that_."

Yeah, that's what everyone says. Now that he thinks about it, they're not really... _talking_ to him all that right. He can't actually hear that much -- just the car horns and alcoholic tinnitus -- and it's like the voice is all...in his head. An echo in the room. That thought almost sobers him up. Oh, _oh_ , damn it. He's just gone _crazy_. That's what he gets for talking to his own personal demons smack dab in the middle of one of his now-defunct temporary homes. There's another metaphor there. He's getting real sick of the damn things.

"Make the pain go away, what, you gonna suck my dick or somethin'?" He checks his fly to make sure he's still decent. He wasn't _that_ much of a slob. "'m already spent, thanks."

" _More like we improve each other. Yyyou need me. III need yyyou._ "

Eddie hunches forward. Suddenly sick to his stomach.

"Nobody _needs_ me."

" _Everybody needs somebody. Everything needs something. Everything for everything. IIIt's the law of the universe. Surely even yyyour sorry state should have told yyyou that much_."

Eddie's trying to listen, but the night's excitement combined with that long walk, all that drinking and that stupid, stupid, _stupid_ candy bar isn't sitting well. He had way too much and not nearly enough to eat. He probably wouldn't even make it to the bottom of the bottle before blacking out. Last time he passed out in public was three months ago (being woken up by two officers who were a little _too_ eager to shove him around is a memory he'd rather not recall). If he passes out _here_ it'd be a lot to explain. Christ alive, he's tired of explaining. Tired of always having to justify it all. Tired of _existing_.

" _Consider it a trade. Bigger. Faster. Stronger. Yyyou all do a lot of trading. Lots of little pointless trinkets with no superior value. Green things. Shiny things. Greedy little things for fleshy little things_."

"Stronger...ha." His head lolls back and he laughs, too hard. The hiccups are gone now and breathing is temporarily the second worst thing in the world. "Stronger."

" _That's funny?_ " They sound kind of annoyed now. For some reason that makes it funnier.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is, 'cause, y'know, my dad, he told me to be stronger...smarter...cleaner...nicer, _funnier_ , better at everything...I did that and it didn't mean shit." He lifts the bottle to his mouth and hits his cheek instead, dribbling scotch onto his shirt. With an annoyed _hiss_ he alters his course. "Now I suck at...everything...and it doesn't mean _shit_."

" _What would yyyou do, if yyyou could?_ "

"Make up your mind, you a...a demon or a therapist or a broken record...speaker." He still can't really see where they are. He's beginning to wonder if his imagination is a complete disappointment, too. "Yeah, I'll tell you, wherever the...ungodly hell you are. I'd make them fucking...fucking _sorry_ for leaving people out in the cold. Uproot all their pretty little secrets, make 'em choke on 'em. Bring some real integrity back to journalism, not like it was ever fucking there, but trends have to...have to start somewhere, huh? Break a few eggs." He pauses. "...Maybe pay off my -- _hic_ \-- oh, god _dammit_! ...student loans."

" _That's not bad ambition. Yyyou all never seem to be short on it, at least. Three different rejections and five different dreams. III wonder how many yyyou hold inside yyyou._ " Something white flickers in the shadow. A lighter? A phone? " _None of yyyou think **big** enough._ "

"...Big? Ha! Nothing _big_ about me." His voice sounds distantly hysterical. Maybe it's because the weight of what he's going to do has hit him like a freight train and his fingers are suddenly filled with pins and needles. If anybody had any doubts about people being inside the abandoned building they sure as _hell_ don't have them now. "Except being a big -- _hic_ \-- failure since I was _born_."

The stranger says nothing. They don't need to. Eddie grips his hair and shivers as the past thirty-eight years sink in all at once.

He'd...tried. He'd tried and tried and _tried_ and whoever invented that ridiculous goddamn phrase about getting back up after life throwing a right hook should get a right hook themselves. Right in the _jaw_. Again and again until they were a swollen mess, then asked if that damned turn-of-phrase made a lick of sense. Every time Eddie got back up he felt _worse_! Over five years since his life fell apart like a botched Jenga tower and he'd thought, all along, he was made out of tougher stuff. Eddie with his shiny degree. Eddie with his big arms and tattoos. Eddie, who ended up being wet newspaper beneath life's heel.

He can't even remember the last time he felt the urge to start building himself up again.

The first hit was probably when his father told him the reason his mother wasn't around was because he killed her. A warm childhood memory for the photo album, right alongside being told Santa never dropped by because he was always a bad kid who never deserved squat. There were a lot of hits in-between there, now that he admits it to himself. Being told by Carl he killed _him_ , too. Killed his desire to go on. Shit brother. Shit son. Could've gotten a gold medal instead of a silver. Could've gotten two gold medals instead of one. Could've gotten three and a _scholarship_ instead of two. He could've kept his marriage together, at least, but that's what Eddie Brock _did_ , ever since he took the very first breath of his wet newspaper life.

The one thing he didn't have to try to do was tear good things apart. 

He should've laid down on whatever floor would take him and stayed there a long time ago. If he did he wouldn't have to let Mary down, when she had a job she didn't like and a sick mother to take care of and a whole new house to look after. Anne, for a _second_ time, though they left on bad enough terms she probably wouldn't even miss the good times. Carl...proving his father _right_ , after all this time, damn it all to hell. Flash. Kaeki. Tanaka. Miles. His stomach churns with more than just the alcohol at that last one. He'd been nice enough to visit him after _all_ these years and he's just going to end up seeing this on the nightly news. If absence knew what was good for it it wouldn't make the kid's heart grow fonder.

Eddie nearly ruined an innocent man's life and had his life ruined in turn. Five long, tired, miserable years in exchange for that late-night shift at The Aeronaut he should've _known better than to do_. Shit...he even made a new friend today, a guy with his sweet little dog, and...he didn't even know his _name_.

' _This is why I deserve this. I just hurt people who care about me and hurt those who don't and hurt everyone else while I'm at it. I'm like a goddamn tick_.' He fumbles out his wallet and flicks it open to the photo he stole from Carl when he was eight. A portrait of his mother when she graduated from university, barely distinguishable in the weak crack of light on the floor. ' _I won't even get to see you._ ' She's still blonde. Smiling at the camera and looking past the cameraman at the entire future ahead of her. ' _Didn't do nearly enough things to deserve that_.'

" _Do we have a deal?_ " He almost forgot the stranger was still there. Their voice sounds...shakier. " _Or is this the end of iiit all?_ "

"You're almost...almost there. Almost. Just missing a key detail about me." He waves his bottle. "Listen. Everybody's got their thing, see. Maybe it's a break-up. A death. An accident or a baby nobody wanted or the wrong place at the wrong time or a disease but everyone's _got_ a thing, see, and I just happen to have them _all_. That's the Eddie Brock angle. That anything that can go wrong _does_ and _pisses_ in your shoes while it's at it." The bottle falls from his hands as a wave of sickness crawls up his throat. "And it's...and it's always your _fault_."

His stomach gives up somewhere in-between the visitor telling him about some great destiny beyond the stars and asking him to 'open his soul'. Eddie manages a nod before he's hunching over toward the table and retching beneath the tarp. It's not even food, he's barely eaten anything all day, and it burns just as much coming up as it did going down. Hopefully his new friend for the night wasn't easily grossed out.

"... _Hmph. Yyyou might be too sick for mmme to do anything with_."

"...Huh?" Eddie mumbles, holding his head and trying to remember which way is up. If he threw up here again he'd definitely be kicked out. There aren't even any rugs in here anymore...

" _Never mind_." The shadows flicker right as he closes his eyes and tries to hold onto something to make the room stop swerving. " _Let mmme show yyyou, Eddie_."

It's the first time they've spoken his name. It's also the first time it sort-of-kind-of sinks in that he hasn't actually gone crazy yet and this is an _actual_ conversation he's been having with someone he still hasn't _seen_. Eddie tugs on the tarp to level himself up and partly across the table, still twitching with sequels to that vomit session, and squints blearily into the black. Something steps out of the shadow, except it doesn't, because it moves like melting butter and looks more like dripping wax vaguely congealing into the shape of a person. Crawling up the stairs and into the light right toward him.

If he weren't so shitfaced he might be terrified.

"Hey, hey, hey, no, listen-" Eddie heaves as he pushes back from the table, covering his mouth with one hand and barely holding onto his gun with the other. If he throws up again he's out. If he throws up again he's finished. "Goddammit...look, I came here to _die_ and that's what I'm gonna do. Okay? I can do this by _myself_ , thanks..."

" _III can stop this_." One glittering white mouth says, then another, then another. Yawning, stretching _mouths_ darker than the shadows pressed in-between the dim window lights, brighter than the pocket of heat in his chest. " _If yyyou just **let** mmme._ "

"What the good godly _hell_ do you care?" Eddie screams. The shadows shiver, like a glitching television screen, but his voice is running away with him. "If alcoholics anonymous and the goddamn center couldn't keep me from losing my mind what, what...what _chance_ do you even _have?_ Leave me alone. Just leave me _alone_!"

" _Because III am big, Eddie. But not without yyyou. Without yyyou III'll die and without mmme yyyou'll die. Do yyyou get it, now? Does it all make sense? Do yyyou finally understand?_ " A spread of white, glittering teeth pulling through the dark like a Cheshire cat's. Their voice sounds like a shredding shirt. " _Yyyou disgusting little creatures and yyyour short, nasty little lives of blood and acid. Yyyou're all so **selfish**!"_

Eddie's mind all but _chokes_ at that last sentence, already drunk and unpredictable and now careening through memories faster than he can keep up. They're screaming at him like Carl. The way he did when teenage Eddie came home late after his extracurriculars. There was a fight on the school bus, Eddie didn't even get _involved_ , but it's his fault for not just getting off and running all the way home. He was selfish for scaring him like that. He tells him this in his home office, with a cup of black tea and the stench of cigars, that he was late coming into the world, that he's always going to be lagging behind, in one way or another, and no amount of running will catch him up.

" _I told you. It wasn't my fault, it was Adam-_ "

" _You've always been **selfish** , Charles_." Eddie hated being called Charles, and he _hated_ the way his office smelled, all old cigars and long talks. " _How much more time are you going to take away from me?_ "

" _I-I'm...I'm sorry, Dad._ " He never got a good look at his study. Not when he was always given a reason to hang his head. " _I should've left the bus..._ "

The Laura House and all its warm memories are gone. Replaced with sour cigars and the dust kick-up of an old HVAC. His very own waking nightmare. Eddie clutches his head, _begs_ the stranger to stop and please, please, _please_ let him be a failure in peace. For a few blissful moments there's nothing but silence and the faint ringing in his ears. Then they whisper, so soft he almost doesn't catch it:

" _III can make the pain go away_."

Like a stalling car battery his resolve sputters into nothing. The riot of bad memories fades into a fuzz crackle and he's suddenly hyperaware of where he is and what he's about to do. Eddie takes a stumbling step back, then two, one hand waving in the air as he tries to find something to hold onto. Heat builds up behind his eyes. A pressure so hot he feels like his head's going to pop right off. He grinds the heel of his palm against his running nose and tries to breathe.

"...I want..." The gun slips through his fingers. "...I _want_ the pain to go away."

A howl starts to crawl up his throat. Overcooked and _burning_ from too many days he hated and not enough he looked forward to. All the days he lost track counting. Eddie crushes his eyes shut and holds himself in a crooked hug. Tries to bury it all back in so this stranger can't see. Not even the other advisors saw him like this. The pistol clatters to the floor.

"... _More liquid_." He hears, just before everything changes. " _III guess III'll find out what makes this one so different._ "

Eddie's vision must truly be gone, now, because the shadows look like they're moving. The darkness stretching out like fingers, in no way the light could be causing, and he tries to blink back the blur eating at his vision as they crawl along the dusty floor to move toward his feet. Then up over his shoes and across his jeans, weirdly _solid_. Then up his shirt. Then-

It's not a person. It's not a demon. _He doesn't know what it is_. Eddie jerks back, then slaps his hands along his pants, his shirt, panting fitfully as the realization literally _sinks in_. It's...it's moving under his _clothes_. Pulling over his skin, cold and slippery, washing over him like a terror chill. His instinct tells him to grab the pistol, pull the trigger, defend himself, _run_ , but there were people nearby. One lousy shot could make today somehow even worse, and when he looks around he couldn't grab it, anyway. It's been swallowed up by the oily blanket pooling everywhere.

" _Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinally._ "

His heart slams against his ribcage. Nausea dips up from his toes and back down his spine in a cold rotation. He's dizzy, he's _elevated_ , he's aware of every single pore and strand of hair and bead of sweat on his body. Somehow he's crawled over to the window, to see what the _hell is happening to him_ , and he can make out the sliver of skin in the light where his sweatshirt has drawn back.

Where his veins are swollen...and black...and _throbbing_.

Eddie opens his mouth to scream, but instead of sound coming out-

Colors.

Colors he's _never seen before_.

Gusts of beautiful colors with every _breath_. Smoke. Dust. Wind that fills up the room and swirls violent violets, raging reds, soft sapphires, shades with no name that are more sensation than visual information that make his brain feel like it's going to _snap_. Stars that burst behind his eyelids, crackle beneath his skin and flutter into the air into streamers that pop and melt. He wants to throw up again, but even his _nausea_ is in fucking shock. He sees other people inside with him, at least, he _thinks_ they're people, only they're made out of crazy hues and fading into the walls. A musical frisson with too much flavor. Is he tripping? Is he having a stroke. He has no idea. He desperately wants it stop, except he desperately _doesn't_. How could he?

It's horrible. It's wonderful. It hurts. It's...

... _amazing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie Brock is going through the last day of his life and tying up loose ends. He goes to one more job with a regular so he can pay off debt to Madison, the senior head of the Golden Community Center. He has a final conversation with his half-sister, Mary, about his stepmother in the hospital and his continued lack of communication with his father. He reminisces over his time spent with Miles Morales back when he was part of a big brother-type program. 
> 
> A bright blue light falls from the sky and shakes up downtown San Francisco. Eddie wants to study it, but also doesn't want to get recognized by reporters or show up on television after his very public fall from grace a few years back. He decides to visit a domestic violence and homeless shelter he used to frequent back in the day when he was living on the streets, only to find out it's been closed down like many others. He breaks in and laments over the changes with scotch in one hand and a gun in the other, ready to end his struggle for good. 
> 
> He's shocked to find he's not alone.
> 
> \--
> 
> Oh my god, it's full of stars!
> 
> The first chapter dives headfirst into a _lot_ of shit...and it only goes downhill from here. Maybe a little uphill. It _is_ set in San Francisco, after all. This is an alternate canon crossover in anticipation of Venom and Spiderman: Into The Spider-Verse coming out at the end of 2018. This will be presented as a standalone story that can be read by newcomers and fans alike.
> 
> A few scenes in this chapter (and some of the basic plot) were actually inspired by a few dreams I had about these movies I'm _so_ glad my subconscious is contributing to my habit. My friend and I proceeded to come up with a spontaneous fanfiction over the course of a week at a convention while talking about the trailers and flash forward _months_ later where I've taken the skeleton structure of a short story and _completely_ run off with it. Time to have fun!
> 
> As you can also see, each chapter has a song dedicated to it. Check it out or offer up some songs of your own, if you've got them!


	2. Recent Studies Show Just Giving Up Is Good For Your Blood Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of ableism, anti-black racism, survivor's guilt and explicit panic attacks.
> 
> Chapter Song -- "#Grownupz" by FEiN

  

 

"Hey. It's me, Miles."

Oh, that's so _dumb_. Why would he say 'it's me' when it was so _obviously_ him? He tries again. Deeper voice. Gotta sound his age at least half the time.

"Remember me? I went to New York for a few years. Always wore the Jordans?"

Wow. He'd probably sound like a twat assuming they don't remember the awkward, gangly kid they were practically forced to deal with four summers ago. Besides...he's _still_ wearing Jordans. Right now. It's probably the first thing they'd notice.

"Hey, guys! It's been a while!"

It's obvious, not really original, but...casual. Kind of. He'll go with that. Miles admires his new fade in the mirror, then puffs out his chest and imagines strolling into the community center like a brand new person. He's much taller, after all. Dresses better, too. They might not even recognize him, actually, and his best case scenario is being able to break the news of his return on his _own_ terms. Miles snaps a quick photo to upload online later and scrolls through the filters, flicking past the ones that bleach him out three shades too many. He finds one that brings out his eyes a little and compares it side-by-side to the mirror.

"Hey." He tries, in his deepest voice possible, and shuffles through different grins, clicking as he goes. "What's up? Oh, hey. _'Ay_."

A sharp _rap-rap_ on the door makes him jump a foot in the air and drop his phone into the sink.

"Miles, baby, you almost done?" Another knock. She's in a hurry. "I need to use the sink real quick. Stupid call took a _lot_ longer than I thought."

"Sorry, sorry, just washing up." He yanks open the door. "I'm done. You look nice."

Rio bulls past him and twists on the faucet (turning it back off when he _squawks_ and snatches his phone), then pats his shoulder in apology. It's still a little weird seeing her hair straightened. Like the neighborhood's extra hills and his loft bedroom he guessed he was just going to have to get used to it. Miles shakes off his phone, then wipes the rest off on the doorknob towel as his mother puts on her daily face.

"Sorry, sorry. I'm just late, that's all-" She smiles sidelong at him from where she's hastily applying foundation in the mirror. "And thanks, babe." Another quick glance in-between swipes. "You look good. _Might_ want to ditch the hoodie, though. Just for now."

Miles sighs and obediently starts shrugging it off. It was chilly, and that jacket Aaron sent him _still_ doesn't fit, but still. People may have a harder time hurting him these days, but it doesn't mean he's jumping at the opportunity to _deal_ with them _or_ his mother worrying. He rolls it into a ball and mentally digs through his drawers upstairs for something else to wear. His Zelda sweater, maybe? It'd clash with his shoes, but he doesn't want to wear something _too_ plain. Not when he was trying to set a good first...well, _second_ first impression. His mom looks him over. She can read him like a synopsis.

"What about that new jacket he sent you? That was pretty cool looking." Miles' chest tightens. He puts on his most casual shrug and frown combo and looks off to the side.

"Nah, I'll just wear my gaming sweater. Maybe it'll get me conversations that aren't about the news or the weather." He _hated_ strangers chatting him up, but a geeky topic was at least something he could work with. His mom hums her approval and sets her handpurse onto the counter.

"I'd choose weather, any time. Too much bullshit going on in the news lately. Even talking about traffic is a lesson in depression." A _click_ as she puts away her brush and pulls out mascara. "They told me I might have to stay an hour past, so you can stay at the Center for a while if you want. I know you've got a lot of catching up to do." She pauses to roll on a shimmery lipstick, some kind of nude instead of the bold blacks and dark reds he remembers. "Just make sure you're back home before five. I want to get there a little earlier, if I can help it, but it seems _everything_ today is conspiring to make me late."

She gives him a knowing smile, something that should make everything temporarily okay, but he can't even work up a cheap joke.

"...What's the point?" Miles mutters, twisting his hoodie in his arms and immediately wishing he could suck that remark back into his mouth when his mother lets out a long sigh.

" _Miles_..."

"Sorry. Forget it. I'll see you later today."

"Miles, no. No, we're _not_ doing this again." His conviction sags when her voice wavers instead of sharpening. "It's not like he wanted to go, okay? Nobody _wants_ to go to jail."

Maybe Aaron didn't, but he didn't exactly _stop_ himself from going, either. Hard for him to look like a victim when all he had to do was stop breaking into places and acting like he was the world's long-lost Robin Hood. It's not what his mom needs to hear right now, though, and Miles' shoulders sink with guilt as she finishes dabbing at the corner of her mouth a _lot_ slower than she was before. He inches back into the bathroom, head low and an apology on his lips. In a way, she beats him to it.

"...I gave him an ultimatum."

Miles blinks, leaning back to look at her better.

"You...did?"

"I did. I wanted us to talk about it together, when he got here, but fuck it. Now's as good a time as any." She combs her bangs to the side, then drops them, then combs them to the side again. "One more slip-up, even if it's just _breathing_ in the wrong direction, and you won't have to worry about his sorry ass ever again. I'll even file a restraining order."

"Really?" Miles hedges, trying not to look _too_ doubtful, what with this being the _third_ time and all, and she nods firmly. "That's not too...extreme?"

"Really." She tosses the comb to the side and just lets her hair fall over her shoulders. "Just... _try_. That's all I ask. Okay? I don't have big hopes either, but..." She's blinking _way_ too much for it to be the mascara. "...If it doesn't work out it doesn't work out, but _until_ then, that's all I'm asking out of you. Go ahead and rebel with some cheap beer or partying until three in the morning, I don't care. Just do this for me."

His chest burns miserably. It _was_ all she was asking. His friends sometimes got jealous of how chill his mother was. She didn't care about things like curfew or making him read the Bible ten times a week or a no-cursing-in-the-house rule. As long as he got decent grades and didn't get into trouble? She went easy on him. Considering some of the horror stories he heard from his friends about their completely anal parenting experiences, and just how much trouble Miles had gotten into _anyway_ these past two years, she was giving him a lot of leeway. Still. He doesn't see why she's bothering, since she _just_ said she doesn't think Aaron will change.

"...I just don't want us to have to move again." He whispers. "That's all."

"I know, babe. I know." She shoulders her bag with a weary smile. "I don't want you to either."

She didn't even say 'us'. God, he's being a selfish brat. He wasn't the only one his father just up and walked out on. The only one left behind when Aaron ran off to jail. Yet here he is, whimpering and sniveling. Like he hasn't been through _so_ much worse. His mother's had to work extra hard to make up for all that missed slack and the least he could do...the only thing he really ever _could_ do...was try. He's jolted out of his thoughts when Rio puts both hands on his shoulders and gives him a now-glittering smile.

"...God, I'm proud of you. Just _look_ at you."

Miles ducks his head in embarrassment. She _clucks_ her tongue, then tucks two fingers under his chin and gently lifts his head back up. He's almost as tall as her now. He's suddenly terrified of the fact she doesn't have to bend down to do that anymore.

"I mean it. San Francisco to New York City to Paris, now you're back here and setting your sights on the best university you can find? Going to the community center to fill up your credits. Getting out more, even with your attacks. I..." She looks like she wants to say more, eyes searching him from head-to-toe, but she cuts off with a wondering shake of her head, shrugging up her purse again and pulling him into a hug that smells like perfume and uncertainty. "You're doing this, Miles. _You're_ doing this."

Miles swallows thickly and presses his face into her shoulder.

"...thanks, Mom."

Like being struck by stress lightning his eyes start getting hot. He has to get up and start moving soon if he's going to stave off the flow. They've been coming a lot more often lately and she only _just_ got this promotion.

"I can pick you up, if you need me to, you'll just have to wait a little longer so I can-" She starts. Miles suddenly twists out of her arms.

"It's fine. No big. I'm...look, I'll be back before five, for sure." He gives her a quick kiss on the shoulder (he doesn't want to smudge all her hard work), then turns and jogs upstairs to his room. "Love you."

Rio doesn't say anything for a few moments. Probably still wondering why he did things like that.

"...Baby, I love you more than anything else. Try to figure out what movie you wanna watch this weekend. I'm still leaning toward 'Life', personally. If Aaron has any complaints about it he can kiss my ass." He waits until she's done speaking before shutting the bedroom door behind him. "Things are getting better, Miles. We'll make sure it happens."

 

* ~ - ~ *

 

" _hey, u got those scans yet??? gonna turn into a furry at this rate lmao_ " Got_The_Gank, 7:50 PM

" _LOL youre already a furry OvO come join us_ ", SilkySmoothPotatoes, 7:51 PM

" _any chance I can opt out of this whole furry thing or am I screwed by association?_ ", MulletHell, 8:09 PM

Miles grins as he flips through last night's chat. Online friends were _so_ much better than real-life friends. He didn't have to constantly make up excuses as to why he couldn't go to some party or answer the door when he was having a head-over-blanket day. He _definitely_ didn't have to worry about saying the wrong thing to a group of people he barely knows and beating himself up over it when he couldn't sleep (Rio called those thoughts 'anxiety gremlins', 'cause they always got _worse_ when fed after midnight). There was always enough time to come up with a witty response through a screen. He could also save old messages for later when he was feeling lonely.

Then there was the whole 'they wouldn't ever find out he was a half-spider, half-human mutant unless he told them'. _Probably_ the most important detail on the pile and one of many he wouldn't have to let them down on.

" _gotta run to my old community center first for school stuff. try not to fall in love with chester the cheetah til I get back._ ", PenultimateLoser, 9:33 AM

A few people stare at him in-between leaving the house and hitting the bus (four, to be exact) and he _really_ hopes it's because they like his sweater-shorts combo. He even swapped out his new Jordans for his old Converse, just to keep consistent with the throwback look. Thankfully nobody starts yapping about his shirt when he hops on the bus, though he _does_ have to deal with being jostled from side-to-side from all the extra tourist activity. The little gap in-between the shoulders of a grouchy businessman and some Silicon Valley hipster pairs well with a song someone's blaring on their portable speaker. A box to create a spontaneous mental music video to watch throughout his commute.

_Hey there, I see you right now because you're me, the answer you seek isn't at the bottom of the sea..._

Miles holds back a sigh when a passenger elbows him in the ribs, shifting away as much as he can with approximately negative five centimeters worth of room. He used to daydream about flinging and slinging webs from building-to-building like a mach-speed spider. To the tune of an indie-rock single, usually, and maybe charming the socks off a few cute girls somewhere in the outro. Now...he just imagines being able to cross the street without breaking into a sweat.

_There's a reason why you can't do the deed, your towering oak won't sprout from this seed..._

"Sir, I would appreciate it if you could turn that off." The driver says over the intercom. Miles sighs when his daydream cuts off. Right when he got to the _good_ part.

It's getting more sunny when he hops off and heads to his transfer, though still not _quite_ hot enough to make him regret his sweater. Miles feels his hands starting to twitch when he's hit with a wall of noise and reaches into his pocket for his string. At least, that was the plan...until he sees he forgot it at the house. Aw, man. It's _torture_ not having anything to fidget with. His stomach squeezes with extra energy the entire walk over, then _again_ with guilt when he reaches his stop and sees a homeless person huddled nearby. The fifth (or was it sixth) he's seen just today. There were a _lot_ in New York City, too. He stands off to the side and conspicuously avoids eye contact. There's $20 in his pocket, but it's his lunch allowance, and even if he _wasn't_ complete shit at social interaction he doesn't know how he'd tell them that.

Aside from the different transfer his old route to the Golden Community Center hasn't changed all _that_ much. He can still kind of sense it beneath the soles of his feet when he gets off the bus again and pads through a quiet section of Midtown Terrace, admiring the flush of green spreading on the trees, eventually making that sharp turn at the abandoned pink house he used to do when he was a foot and a half shorter. The trip won't take more than an hour. Not like when he was in Bayview, where it felt like his entire _day_ would be snipped in half. He can already feel the difference in the air when he leaves behind the suburbs and enters downtown, the smog mingling with local Mexican restaurants and old cafes.

It's a chore shuffling through the maze of tourist crowds and closed-off construction. Nothing he didn't whet his appetite on in New York. On the upside more people meant he blended in more, too, but the downside was...more _people_. He'll have to take some good, old-fashioned iPod medication soon. Miles' skin starts growing tight when he crosses the street and walks near one of the colorful downtown apartment complexes, like he's stepped into a freezer, and he unconsciously speeds up his pace the moment he touches sidewalk again. A loud _crash_ erupts behind him not a second later. He whirls around, gawking down at what looks to be a broken Xbox now in pieces all over the ground. _Right_ where he was standing.

" _You bitch!_ " Someone screams above him. A couple howling at each other, from the sound of it. "Do you know how much that _cost_ me?!"

"Yeah, I do, because you love your fucking _games_ more than you love _me!_ "

Miles hurries along.

Peter had called it a 'spidey sense'. A sixth sense born from his strange powers that keep him safe by telling him of every little detail, even the tiniest _sniff_ of danger, in the surrounding area. Anxiety, well...it was like a spidey sense that never stopped _pinging_. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between the two. ...Okay, it was _always_ hard to tell the difference between the two. It wasn't something he could just bring up to a counselor, either (and he couldn't bring _that_ up to his mother and, well, he was just a miserable pile of secrets, really). It was a pain in the neck sometimes, but at least he didn't have a concussion.

There's a protest going on at an intersection. Loud voices doing their best to compete with the honk of cars and the honk of gulls. It's _way_ too smoggy and busy today. Two things he doesn't care for and is completely running out of tolerance tokens for. Miles takes a detour away from downtown, veering toward a less-populated part of a nearby district to give himself a breather before he has to walk back into the fire. Everything _finally_ gets quieter, the clutter of foot traffic and car traffic replaced by rustling trees. Even the sunlight seems happier to be here, the afternoon's hard glare filtered along the smooth, squat buildings and coating them yellow.

Miles reaches into his pocket to appreciate the change properly with some mood music and pauses when he sees...he forgot his headphones, too. _Damn it_. He was so wrapped up in changing his outfit and triple-checking his hair he forgot to grab _half_ of his self-care inventory! Miles stares sadly at his iPod screen and scrolls through a few of the songs he wanted to listen to. While he _could_ play something on his phone, he doesn't want to attract attention to himself.

"This morning I woke up in the fortress of distortion..." He mumbles under his breath. "...I'm at war with my emotions…"

His skin prickles in warning. Miles glances up, then around, pretending to scroll through his playlist as he walks. The downside of less people (what few there _were_ ) were more animals, it seems, because he spots a _really_ big mutt all the way down the street. It's growling at a young woman with a briefcase. Miles tenses. He's a few blocks into the neighborhood now and...there's almost nobody around. There are _lots_ of parked cars and chained bikes, but it seems most people were either inside or downtown.

"Hey, no, _no_ , stay...bad dog, bad, no. _Sit_." He can hear her as clearly as if she were next to him. She's having a hard time backing away in her heels and hits a groove in the ground. "Ow, _shit_...damn thing, get _back-_ "

It's not even a stray -- it has a collar and everything -- and it's doing everything _but_ backing off. The dog is growling low in its throat, tall ears perked forward and tail high in the air. Cindy told him once that a high tail doesn't mean the dog's friendly, even if it's wagging, and his spidey-sense confirms it with a painfully _sharp_ tightening of his pores. One wrong move and it was going to lunge. She could get _really_ badly hurt. He's not a hero, though. He lets people down. He leaves them to bleed out in a dirty puddle while he flees to go be scared and useless and _stupid_ somewhere else.

Miles swallows at the lump in his throat, turns to walk away, and-

" _Get off!_ " She snaps, swinging her briefcase, not sounding so much angry as scared out of her _mind_ , and the dog starts barking wildly. " _Help-_ "

He can't help her. He can't help _anyone_. He'll just make it worse-

" _Somebody help, please!_ "

He can't do it. He can't, he _can't_. If he even tries-

The woman curses, turns and runs. The dog lunges. Miles drops his iPod and-

-for the first time in nearly a year everything slows to a crawl, blurs a little...then slides to a stop.

Like suddenly donning the world's trippiest 3-D glasses the buildings and patches of grass lose their natural yellows and greens, now bathed in vibrant reds and pinks and purples. There's a faint double-image to it all, like a motion blur caught in place. Even the sky's blue is _far_ too neon to be natural. Miles blinks at his iridescent surroundings, taking everything in with a slow, cautious swivel. God. It's...it's been so _long_. He almost forgot how _weird_ everything looks when he uses his powers. Neat as hell, but _completely_ bizarre and totally separate from nature. Kind of like him now, he supposes.

A couple with their baby just rounded the corner in the far distance, but they're still not close enough to stop the dog, barely more than a technicolor smudge. He glances down at his iPod, halfway suspended above the sidewalk in a flash of cherry red, then looks at the dog. It's suspended in the air, jaws wide with a vicious snap. The lady is frozen mid-run, hair a blur over her face and halfway turned in her attempt to flee, high heels and all, and if she trips she could get mauled. If she _doesn't_ the dog's going to close the gap, anyway. She'll get bitten. She'll get a _disease_. She'll get-

Miles yanks up his sleeve. His internal webbing has been moving through his forearm like a second pulse, building up as strong as a rope and as elastic as rubber. He could zip out a web. Aim it right at the dog's legs to stick it to the sidewalk or even hit in the mouth so it can't bite. Nobody would have to know about it. He could just flick it out and go, just like Peter did. Faster than the human eye can see. His hand shakes at the thought. It's been _months_ since he's used his powers. His aim is _garbage_. He's abruptly dizzy with uncertainty.

...What if he misses and they catch him? What if he accidentally hits _her?_ He...he _can't_. He'll miss. He'll mess things up. It'll be all his _fault_.

" _Miles! Miles, listen to me, you gotta go, get out of here, please, just **go-**_ "

Miles drops his sleeve, clutches his ears and _begs_ his powers to go dormant again. Like switching off a faucet the adrenaline moving through his arms vanishes abruptly. The light hitting the buildings shifts from neon pink back to beige yellow. The purple melts from the trees and the multicolored double-image eases back into place. Miles only looks up when an iron tang hits his nose.

...She's been _bit_.

There are red splatters on the sidewalk, as vivid as his enhanced vision. He's suddenly consumed with the urge to vomit. Calls of alarm erupt down the street. Miles' legs, the only part of him to make any sense today, are propelling him away from the screams of pain and cries of confusion and his utter, complete _failure_ , back into the thick of smog and ten thousand voices.

" _Miles! Go, just go, I'll be fine, it's okay, it's okay-_ "

The dead voices fall behind and fade into the blur of San Francisco rush hour. It doesn't take long for his own thoughts to catch up to him, though, and slap him in the back of the head. ...Idiot. _Idiot!_ Why did he _do_ that?!

Maybe...maybe he won't see any. It was just a little quick thing. Not even a few _seconds_. He can't look around too much as he heads toward the intersection -- he doesn't want to look suspicious -- but the urge keeps making his neck twitch. When he _finally_ reaches the third and final block on his route without a single sighting he starts to breathe a little easier, the aching tightness that signals an incoming panic attack letting up just the tiniest bit. He couldn't even get away with a little _fake_ heroism, but maybe he could leave that entire incident behind him, and pretend it _never_ happened.

Peter wouldn't have wanted him to call it that, but heroes...they were just vehicles for comic book plots. Action movie stars. Greek legends and cute Twitter stories. They were never cowardly little shits in beat-up Converse.

' _I tried, Peter._ ' He twists the bottom of his sweater until it wrinkles. ' _I know you said that's what counts, but that's not what it feels like._ '

Miles's hasty stride slows down...then shrinks to a crawl...then stops. Someone bumps into his shoulder, but his attention is elsewhere. ...It's faint. Kind of blurry. If he squints maybe he can confuse it for a heat shimmer or...or something other than what it so clearly _is_. No...no, he didn't even use his powers that _long_. There's no reason for it to be here already! He can't avoid it without taking an entire detour across the bridge and he's already taking too long to get to the Center, which is just around the corner...

"Yo, kid, move it-" Someone snaps behind him. A car honks. He didn't even realize he reached the last intersection.

Miles takes in a deep breath and shifts with the flow of the impatient afternoon crowd. Right toward the chromatic ghost standing in the middle of the street.

They're not moving, just standing and staring at something in the distance, but the downtown crowd is bumping him from side-to-side in their hurry to experience San Francisco. Unless he wants to push someone out of the way...he _has_ to walk near it. Near those colors flickering and twitching like an oil spill in the rain. Miles grits his teeth. It's okay. It's fine. He just can't touch it. If he touches it he'll _feel_ what it's feeling. He looks through it as he passes, bystanders strolling the opposite direction flashing from mundane neutrals into pink and back again.

It doesn't touch him. It doesn't even look at him. He squeezes as close as he can to a group of twenty-somethings, talking too loudly to really notice him, and the ghost soon fades into the thick of the crowd.

Peter said they weren't ghosts, or even real -- just weird little visions, some sort of side-effect of their mutation, a total mystery but nothing that could really hurt them -- but they look and feel more real than his own _heartbeat_. Miles' scrubs his sweaty palms on his jeans, then rubs at his wrists when the tactile sensation doesn't work, and his mouth starts to quiver when that doesn't work _either_. Oh, he just wants to go home. Maybe he should just come up with an excuse. He could just try again another day. But he _can't_. Not when mom looked so hopeful. But...

Like the light at the end of the tunnel the sunlight winks on the Golden Community Center's sign across the street.

His eyes _sting_ with relief. Oh, he never thought he'd be so happy to have to deal with real people with real voices and _real_ problems. God, he'd even take a stranger chatting him up about the weather! Miles studies the newly renovated sign as he jogs up. It's no longer made out of cheap metal, now embellished with a frame of yellow and orange flowers. Paper flowers are wrapped around the wooden base stand, somehow both wrinkled and cheery. " _The Golden Community Center: A Little Bit Of Hope_."

"A little bit of hope..." He mutters to himself, all depressed irony and itchy eyes, and he inwardly begs his anxiety to shape up for just a bit longer. "...A little bit of good."

The first time he came here...it was the opposite of that. Like a little bit of a punishment sandwich. Well...it _was_ a punishment sandwich, actually, not that he would really know, himself. Miles had only been in detention one time in of his entire life and that was because he missed too much school, not because he punched some kid in the face or got caught stealing mousepads from the computer lab. Still. The Golden Community Center back in the day had that same bland, dry look he saw at Saturday schools and those temporary classrooms that didn't have enough time to develop a personality. Looking at it now...

A ripple of goosebumps. Oh, not _again_. Miles ducks and covers his head. A soccer ball goes sailing just an inch over him, bouncing off the sign and making it creak sharply in complaint.

"Shit, sorry, sorry!" A teen close to his age yells as they run over. "Wow, nice reaction timing. You play ball?"

He has a pretty good quip about Mario Tennis inside him somewhere, but he's still feeling numb after the past hour and can barely manage a smile before hurriedly jogging through the Center's front doors. It's not just the sign that got renovated. Now the lobby has plants, paintings. _Way_ more color. Probably what it was supposed to look like before, 'til it got a scholarship or something. He takes a moment to admire the ceiling's makeover. Baby blue wallpaper. It's really cute.

A familiar _squeaking_ behind him makes him instinctively stand to attention. _Flash!_ The man's hair is more closely cropped now, but he's still wearing his tags and wristbands. No fatigues, though. Guess he got bored of the same look seven days a week. Miles works himself up enough to send a smile his way. Flash slides to a halt in front of him, a pile of papers in his lap and a few glittery stars stuck to the spokes of his wheelchair.

"Woah, hey. Haven't seen your face in a while." He grins. "Love the fade, Miles."

Dang it! He's been recognized. At the very least it wasn't about that time he nearly had a meltdown after getting stung by a wasp. ...He hopes, anyway. Flash was kind of intimidating, if he was being honest, but he wasn't a jerk. Not _totally_. Miles had just never wanted to get on his bad side, since he was an ex-military guy and had a voice that could put a loudspeaker to shame when he was pissed off...which was often. He remembers how some of the other kids here dubbed him a 'wheel big pain'. ...Now that he thought about it, it wasn't really all that funny.

"Thanks. You kinda got one, too." He waves a hand to the side of his head. Flash barks.

" _Ha!_ That's male pattern baldness. Jus' gettin' older." He tugs off his baseball cap and runs a hand over his shave. "Thanks, anyway. You say hi to Eddie yet?"

Miles pauses. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it and just blinks at him. Hold up. Mr. Brock...was still _here?_

Flash tugs his cap back on and tosses a thumb over his shoulder. "Yeah, you didn't know? He volunteers part-time. Been doin' it for the past year or somethin' like that. Go say hi. He should be in the rec room right now. I'd go with you but I've got paperwork to turn in-" He's cut off when two kids burst past him in the hall, nearly running into his chair on their way back outside. He resists the urge to cover his ears when the man immediately roars in Surround Sound volume, " _Watch it!_ No runnin' in the halls, you tiny demons! Who the hell do you think you are, _Vin Diesel?!_ "

Oh, _God_ , it's even worse with enhanced hearing. Miles scrunches up his face, even though that Fast and the Furious joke was pretty good.

"Fucking hell, there are posted _signs_ , should know better than to do that..." Flash grumbles. His voice lowers when he scoots back to face him, like he totally wasn't giving a boom mic a run for its money a hot second ago. "...Sorry. Don't tell Susan I called them that."

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, no problem. I'll leave you to your adulting." Miles responds with a weak smile. Flash laughs one more time and wheels off down the hall. Well, at least he managed _one_ clever line before the conversation was over. He turns on one heel and makes a beeline for the rec room, shaking again, but this time...with _excitement_.

It had just been a university thing. Extra credit work, that's all! He'd volunteer hours at the Center helping out kids in need, do some presentations, then he was gone. He didn't think he'd ever see him again, much less come back _here_. His heart speeds up and he resists the urge to tear down the hallway like a kid (or, according to Flash, a tiny demon). It's like the universe is rewarding him for surviving his panic attack earlier.

The dude was a journalist whose articles showed up in daily papers. Sometimes the front _page_. To a kid that practically meant he was a celebrity. He always had an ear to the ground and could talk his way through _anything_. He was also totally _ripped_. Kind of like a jock, if they liked editing papers more than throwing a football. A real muscle nerd. A _newsbro_. Miles, on the other hand, was a shitty little string bean -- he kind of _had_ to be, running from people who wanted to steal his things -- and he could never really pack anything on.

Eddie Brock was just... _cool_. That? It meant _everything_ to Miles at the time.

He'd _never_ been cool, or handsome, or funny, or...anything. Teachers and parents and those mandatory school special videos were always saying 'it's the inside that counts' and 'believe in yourself', but it was a bunch of Saturday morning cartoon garbage. Miles was judged for _everything_ and no amount of believing in himself made him get shoved into the pavement any less. It was hard to lose his self-esteem when he didn't have any. Even when people started being a little nicer to him this past year he's always waiting for that other shoe to drop. Peter once told him it wasn't any way to live, but...what else was he supposed to do? He's going to have to figure out just how much Aaron feels like judging him later today. ... _That_ , at least, could wait.

Miles almost feels a skip coming on. What will he think of his outfit? His new haircut? Mr. Brock always had something nice to say about him. It's cheesy, but he could use some of that positivity right about now. He found this out very early on when he first walked up to the guy and, instead of some canned statement about how much _fun_ they were going to have together or an awkward greeting about how to pronounce his last name, he asked what his favorite radio single was. When he found out Miles was a fan of 80's electronica and indie-rock he called him an 'old soul'. Miles' smile fades.

...He would've liked Peter.

' _He could've met him. Him and Michelle_.' The truth drowns out the upbeat din of the Center. ' _If I had just **done** something_. Now nobody's going to ever meet them. Not mom, or Aaron, or Mr. Brock, or my friends, or-'

God, if it's not one thing it's _another_. He hurries down the hall, eyes flicking around in desperate need of a distraction so he doesn't go back. There are plenty. Little paper flower baskets in corners. A _ton_ of kid doodles coating the halls. His gaze sharpens, instinctively, and to his shock he finds his all the way at the end of the hall, wrinkled and faded but still there. A joke picture of Mr. Brock dressed up like the Incredible Hulk, purple shorts and all, for portrait week. Wow. The place has been changed a _lot_ , but they really cared about cheesy memories.

He stops in front of the clutter of drawings, heart warm with sentimentality, and admits...he's _totally_ lost. Wasn't there a playroom over here once? Miles promptly makes a left turn, ignoring the tug of childhood, and hopes the next hallway will take him somewhere closer.

When the coordinators told him he was being paired with Eddie Brock in the summer mentorship program he thought they were playing a prank on him. Wouldn't be the first time. Even by adults. His mom had been nervous about it, too -- mainly because his last experience with a white mentor had ended in her screaming over the phone for nearly an _hour_ \-- but it turned out way better than he thought. Once she even invited him over for lunch at their _house_ , which was the second most embarrassing thing in the world. No, first place would go to Eddie constantly complimenting her outfit _during_ that lunch and telling her she belonged on a magazine cover. Yeesh.

Eventually his looping thoughts yell at him that he should hurry up before Mr. Brock leaves the rec room. Miles gives up this mini-adventure with a sigh, risking a peek into one of the occupied rooms to do the deed and ask for directions. The whole room is clean and pretty, but kind of washed out, like the painter couldn't figure out if they wanted orange or yellow and gave up halfway. A chubby woman is sitting at the desk, pointing with her fork at a co-worker wiping down the tables across the room. She's talking pretty loudly. Too loudly to call in, probably. He doesn't want to interject and look rude, so he waves a hand in the doorway.

"Oh?" Thankfully she notices the first time. She takes another crunching bite before waving him in. "What's up?"

"Hi, um...I was gonna apply for the summer volunteer program, but I heard Mr. Brock was working here?" Miles starts, edging through the doorway _just_ enough to look like he's listening, but not enough to get caught in a conversation void. Especially with how _loudly_ she's chewing. He's not sure if it's his spidey senses or if she just has a mouth like a garbage disposal-

"Oh, good, good. Actually, we got applications the next room over..." She jerks her head at the door. "Also, he's not working here. Part-time volunteering." Another bite, this time with a frown. "He doesn't really have a job. At least, not a _job_ job."

"Didn't he mention something about writing for an online magazine?" The woman across the room asks, spritzing another table until it's shining.

"Come on, you know Eddie's always banging on about some big deal or another. All mouth and no trousers, that one. Last week he said he got this _huge_ break-" She flails one arm in the air in a quick imitation that _immediately_ snags on Miles' nostalgia. "-and he's never brought it up since. Said something similar the week before. I think he's just embarrassed he hasn't been able to find a full-time with that degree of his."

Miles' previous train of thought screeches to a halt, crashes, then burns. He's...unemployed? In _San Francisco?_ The guy used to be a big name. On television and everything. One of Miles' earliest memories in the program was walking around Parkside and learning 'observational skills', all that stuff he picked up after a million reporting jobs. Mr. Brock had been surprised at how good he was at honing in on little details in the environment -- telling him he was a ' _goshdang natural_ ' -- but it was par for the course being poor and black and bullied all the damn time. If anything his heightened senses have now made him _too_ good.

Some people were cursed with bad acne or stuttering. Miles was cursed with knowing how hard someone was chewing their gum twenty feet away. Or, in this case, chicken caeser salad.

Their exercises hadn't been like the other mentor-students' at the Center, either. Instead of playing sports or hanging out in the game room they'd go on trips throughout the city. Doing people-watching exercises, visiting landmarks, stuff like that. It'd been kind of neat to learn he actually had some skills besides being able to run away from people at top speed, but Mr. Brock didn't really get overwhelmed by outside input like he did. His mom once laughed when Miles came home earlier this week and mentioned how _tired_ he was of noticing everything, that laugh she always did when she was trying not to let on how nervous she was for him. He probably would've gotten that snorting honk from her, if he ever felt like laughing about _anything_ outside of memes.

" _If only the world would stop spinning for a minute._ " She'd agreed, squeezing his shoulder. " _Baby, don't go thinking just because we live up on the 'good side' of Bernal and have a better car we're not still the exception to the rule. Watch yourself. You call me if you don't feel safe_."

Miles starts to rub at his wrists, then remembers he's in front of people and crosses his arms instead. Maybe if he wasn't such a failure he could protect _her_ for once. Protect her with these sticky webs and electric shocks he was lucky enough to have and always, _always_ too chickenshit to use. Susan suddenly bursts out laughing, jerking him to attention. They're still talking, and his thoughts have completely run off with him, and he feels his stomach sink all the way down to his feet when he realizes...oh, crap. He's missed almost _everything_ they've said.

"...mad, just mad. Kind of stuff you'd hear on 60 Minutes." She's also still talking with her mouth full. Sounding like Ron Weasley devouring handfuls of chocolate frogs. "Oh, hey, Eddie tell you about the Aeronaut?"

"Hey, no, Susan, come on." The other lady says, now pulling out cleaning supplies from a small cupboard in the corner. "That's not what we should be doing."

"What...?" Miles asks, before he can help himself. He thinks he could just trail off there, but he's already asked and... "What happened at the Aeronaut? They shut down or something?"

"No, uh..." Susan glances at her peer, who just rolls her eyes in defeat and starts to spray the windows. "Oh, come on, everyone knows. Why not fill the kid in, too?" Then she bulls on ahead, anyway. "He just got fired, is all, Miles."

"...Oh." That's so rude and gossipy, but even _that_ sentence still doesn't really explain why they have such a funny look on their face. Aside from the fact it was a real nice job. "That sucks. Um, do you know why, or...?"

"He accused the wrong man of a serious crime a few years back. _Murder_." She says, instantly, like she can barely even wait to share. "Everyone was shocked. Eddie was kind of the Aeronaut's darling, you know? Always got them good press. Even gave _us_ good press, back when we couldn't get any funding. He's a loudmouth, but, still...didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd do that, you know?"

' _He's not. He's more the kind of guy who tells a complete pussy he's better than he thinks he is_.' Miles frowns. Adults were always so...what was the word...convoluted. He wonders if it's really as bad as they say. "It was an accident, right? He just got his facts wrong?" Miles offers, then shrinks at Susan's sharp stare.

"It's journalism. It's their job to get their facts right and one wrong fact can _really_ hurt a person." She (finally) sets her half-eaten salad down. "I still remember the headlines. The guy he accused got hauled in for questioning, from what I recall. Wasn't taken to jail, but it a damn _near_ thing, that. I'm no lawyer, but just imagine all the public backlash and mental trauma..."

"Yeah. Yeah, right. Just...doesn't seem like something he'd do on _purpose_." He mutters, uselessly, and her harsh look gets even worse. "That's...that's all."

"Well, if someone decides they want to report the _wrong_ bloke burning up all those homeless camps I'd be pretty damned pissed."

"Wait..." Miles blinks. "...what?"

"You don't know? Yeah. Awful stuff happening in Tenderloin, like usual. Far from the only garbage." She holds up a hand in a checklist. "Someone went around sending homeless people's tents on fire. Shoot-out in a strip club a few weeks back, then there's a big street sweep going around to crack down on drug usage..."

"You don't _know_ Eddie lost his job for that." The other woman interjects with a wave of her rag, still on the previous conversation. "He said they were laying off employees. Not to mention he had to go to the hospital-"

"Right, right. He got laid off right _after_ a false article that pissed everyone off. Bloody good coincidence, that one." Susan watches him for a moment, then snorts. "...Sorry, hon. I'm just a fountain of fun topics today, huh? Listen, he was your mentor. I get that." ...Aw, dang it. Recognized _again_. "Just...don't bring up the whole Aeronaut thing, all right? Just pretend I never told you. Eddie's pretty touchy, so don't do anything obvious like change the subject or he'll talk your ear off, he will." She reaches for her food, then pauses. "In fact...pretend you didn't even talk to _me_."

Great.

Miles is finally set free after learning both their names (Susan _and_ Carol, _way_ after the fact) and snatching an application from the next room. Now that he's got directions he feels a little less tense. A _little_. Right on cue a little girl in a blue dress passes by him in the hall, a lot slower than the other kids he's seen around. Probably even tinier than he was at the same age, with star stickers everywhere. Her knees, her shoes, her cheeks. She takes one look at him, waves a glittery hand his way, then trots off.

"...Hi." Miles mutters, way too late, and slinks into the rec room.

A soft orange wallpaper this time, like the poppies at the Golden Gate Park, with little table flowers that he can tell are fake. It's got a big television set with a clearly-neglected Wii and a pool table someone abandoned mid-game. A ton of books and piles of magazines. There are two people sharing a book in the far corner. Miles' heart skips with the happiest palpitation he's had all day when he sees a familiar broad back hunched over a table by the window and flipping through a beat-up notebook, brow wrinkled with focus.

"Mr. Brock, _hey!_ " He starts. "It's been a-" He trails off as the sight sinks in.

It's the same guy, but...it's not. He's got one hell of a five o' clock going on. No...wedding ring? He's still ripped -- he can tell even under that sweatshirt -- but everything else is like if his old memory of Eddie Brock got picked up by his ankles and shaken for all his loose change. The weirdest detail are the _huge_ circles under his eyes. His hair isn't neatly styled and brushed back, either, all shaggy and flat, and he just...looks _exhausted_.

"...while."

He'd...always wondered why the man deleted his Facebook out of nowhere. He was always talking about the latest thing. Posting a dozen times a day. Back in New York sometimes Miles would keep his social media feed open to give his thoughts something _else_ to chew on. He thought maybe he'd just gone to another site, Twitter or Instagram, even, but he never found him once he disappeared. Miles was never anybody's hero. He doesn't want to be. It still doesn't keep him from feeling like _this_ \-- this tired man in a worn-out hoodie and sneakers that've seen better days -- is something else he could've _stopped_.

He _did_ leave a nice comment on his Facebook, once, then stopped because he thought he was bugging him, and that past cowardice makes him sick to his stomach. Eddie had tried to leave _him_ a nice word here and there, on his mom's account, too, and then their brief friendship had all gone up in smoke. Miles hadn't checked in on him enough, all these years, even though he wanted to. Maybe if he _had_ , well.

Maybe there was something he could say _now_ , to make up for that. Something...something _kind_. Motivational, maybe.

' _...Or maybe you should keep your big fat mouth shut and not make him feel worse. Guy clearly has a lot on his plate right now and doesn't need to be indirectly pressured to be your cool big brother-mentor again. ...Especially since he is apparently the kind of person who'd lie about a murder charge. Maybe._ ' Miles thinks, his once-confident posture shaking a little when his old mentor blinks at him for the first time in years. ' _Just say hi and stop making everything so complicated._ '

"...Speedster?" Mr. Brock has been squinting this whole time, like he's not really sure it's him...then he _grins_. " _Dang_. You've gotten tall."

Oh, no. Miles feels a _stupid_ huge smile coming on, right before the man scoots back his chair, jogs around the table and gives him a tight hug. He returns it, and lets himself grin helplessly over his shoulder.

He sounds so _happy_ to see him. Even uses his old nickname! Miles had told him during their first 'spirit building session' (so corny, ugh) that no matter how many new schools he went to kids were always calling him names. Sometimes they hurt more than being shoved to the ground or slapped, really. At least with physical violence kids had to be sneaky, but words...they would whisper shitty things throughout the halls when teachers weren't paying attention. Write it everywhere, on his locker or the ground or his backpack. Remind him what they, and everyone else, _really_ thought about him. It was the first nickname he got outside of the house that didn't suck.

Now that he's older Speedster is a _pretty_ silly handle (like a minor character from a 90's PSA), but he still likes it. As long as it wasn't said in front of other people, that is. Miles didn't want to give anyone the wrong idea and think he was spiking or something. It's kind of overwhelming, being bowled over with _good_ memories for once, and he _really_ hopes he's not still shaking when the man pulls back and gives him a once-over.

"Of _all_ the people to see today...what brings you over here, kid?" Mr. Brock's roaming eyes land on his shirt. Judging by the way his gaze keep scrolling, he's probably appreciating the knitted rupees, fairies and triforces. "Nice outfit."

"Thanks. I'm just dropping by." That doesn't sound so bad. "Thought I'd see what's poppin'." ...Eck.

"Same old, same old. Here, sit down. Wait, no, stay there. I'll grab you a chair." Mr. Brock grabs two and moves around the desk, plunking them down across from one another. Miles sits down and tries not to wriggle _too_ much when the man leans his elbows on his knees and fixes him with his iconic bright stare. "All right. We got a lot of ground to cover. Start from the top and skip the MLA."

"Well, um. I just wrapped up a college prep course. Coming back to finish up school and graduate. Also, I'm five-three now." Miles beams at his visible surprise. "You still the shortest guy at the gym?"

"Come on, _always_. Gotta make sure I'm giving all the shrimps a good name." Mr. Brock beams right back. "Where'd you take your course?"

"Oh, um, I studied in France. Paris, to be specific, though I did get to visit Belgium for a few nights."

"Ah, the city of lights." He gets a wistful look on his face, like he just got an insta-daydream. "Went there for a job once. You have a good time, then?"

"Oh, yeah. I was kinda blown away. I mean, I've been to a lot of big cities, but another language, not having any friends..." Mr. Brock still looks tired, but he nods enthusiastically and doesn't break eye contact, and it's enough to make Miles feel bold. "Lots of stuff to do, though. It's both really old-fashioned _and_ really modern. Took a ton of pictures of the buildings. Oh, uh, I bought these great comics while I was there. One's got a bunch of anthro art, but it's not, like, Disney or anything. It's this noir-drama, like Sin City or Goodfellas, but with animals? The art's _amazing_."

"Yeah? Animals and Goodfellas, huh. You'll have to send some over." The guy was always interested in what he had to say, even if he wasn't completely following. "Not like Disney, though...you mean, like, old Disney or new Disney?"

"Oh, new Disney. I mean, _not_ like new Disney, It's _totally_ old Disney. Really bloody, slow burn-type stuff, lots of, uh." He coughs and lowers his voice. "Sex."

" _Ha!_ So it's a French work, then?" He sucks air through his teeth when Miles nods. "Mm, okay. My French needs some work. Haven't studied much lately. How about you, still spitting romance?"

Miles blinks. "Oh. Oh, yeah, of course. I'm fluent now." He facepalms. "Oh, _dang_ it...I should've greeted you in French." Mr. Brock asks him something. Miles blinks again. It takes him three miserable seconds to realize he asked him a question...in French. Oh, why did his brain always _completely_ crap out on him when he needed it least? "Uh." He slowly, sheepishly, hunches into his seat. "...Quoi?"

"Ha, hey, don't worry." The man crosses his arms and jerks a chin at him. "Your brain is probably rewired now that you're back here. We actually become less adept at learning languages the older we get. You're still young, though, so there's nothing to worry about. Little Kaeki's fortunate she came stateside at her age. Might not be able to juggle three languages so easily otherwise." Mr. Brock stops himself before he totally loses him. "Ah. Girl and her mother applied here last fall in the immigrant program. Real sweet kid. Totally crazy about stars, so talk about space or something if you want her to feel comfortable around you."

"Oh, right. Still. I was there for six months and studied for two years before that...should be able to get down _that_ much." Miles mutters, unable to let this slip-up go. People were complimenting him back _in_ France, telling him he sounded like a native, and yet this totally flew over his head! Mr. Brock's phone buzzes and he whips it out, holding up a finger with the other. Miles inwardly seethes. Well, _that_ would've been a great distraction from his flub of the year, if it didn't come fifteen seconds too _late_.

"Yeah? No, I'm at the Center. Why? ... _What?_ Oh, _he-_ " He somehow catches himself in-between a single syllable. "...lck."

Miles keeps his voice politely low when he asks,

"... _Helck?_ "

"Yeah, yeah. It's a Welsh word, you know." He says, before returning to his conversation. Pft. Mr. Brock could be so full of crap sometimes. Miles mulls over the best possible answer as he waits for the call to end. It ends up being no more than a minute, according to the clock. More than enough time to come up with a response that's witty, but not _too_ blunt.

"...Christ." Mr. Brock mutters when he hangs up with a low _beep_ , shaking his head at the screen. Miles leans forward.

"You... _do_ know I'm fifteen, right? You can cuss around me now, Mr. Brock. I won't tell on you."

"One, it's Eddie to you. Two, no, I _can't-_ " He says, dropping the act immediately. "-because that sets a bad example to the other fifteen year-olds. According to Madison, anyway. So 'heck in a basket' as long as I'm here. ...Or helck." He rolls his eyes, then continues. "So, you told me _why_ you're in the 415, but not why you're back _here_. Giving the new renovation a look?"

"Kind of?" Miles sits up a little. "Mom swapped from programming to data entry when she graduated. Or, uh, _after_ she graduated. Computer science. We moved, too. I've only been back here for a week and it's been a lot of packing and cleaning..."

"Wait, what about New York City?" He chuckles and waves a hand in a half-circle. "Can't just go off about Paris without giving me some details on your time at the Big Apple."

The day screeches to a halt. His brain comes up with a nice, reasonable excuse, somewhere way, _way_ in the back of his head, but...the words don't make it to his mouth. They fall down his throat and sit in his chest like a ball of phlegm, uncomfortable and bitter and refusing to budge. Mr. Brock's face falls and he peers at him, like he can tell he slipped up but has no idea where. That's okay. That's fine, actually. A _lot_ of people can never tell why Miles can go from 100 to 0 in a split second and that's because he's a cowardly, raging fuck-up with the universe's _worst_ brain chemistry-

"Speedster..." The man's brow is wrinkled tight again, leaning forward with his arms still crossed over his chest. At the drop of a hat his gaze could turn into a pair of searchlights, boring into him and giving him no room to hide. "You all right?"

"I don't live in New York City." Miles finally says in a hasty rush, like a bunch of browser tabs that finally loaded. "It was a temp thing, that's all, just living with my relatives while my mom finished up school."

"Oh, I know. Just asking about what you did there." He raises his eyebrows slowly. "Something...happen in New York?"

"No. Just don't live there."

"If you need to talk-"

"I _don't._ "

"I mean, if it's _me_ you're mad at-"

" _I'm not!_ "

Miles blinks, then gulps hard, breathing even harder. Oh, shit. He didn't mean to get so _loud_. The two in the corner are looking over their shoulders at them, he can see it in the corner of his eye, and he wants to crawl out of his _skin_ from the embarrassment. He pushes his hands into his pits and stares firmly at his feet. When he finally risks a glance at the man's face he's leaned back in his seat again, quietly confused.

"...Okay, okay. I'm sorry, kid. I didn't mean to upset you." He starts, then adds, to Miles' _unending_ relief, "Hopping around is a pain in the craw, that's for sure. That means you're no longer in Bayview, then?"

"Y-Yeah. I mean, no. We're not." He rubs his hands to give his nervous energy somewhere else to go. Mom probably wouldn't want him to bring up all the little things that went into them getting booted out of their apartment. "We, um...live up in Bernal Heights now. Mom and I."

A low whistle. "Nice pick. She got a baby on the way or something?"

"What? Oh! No. She just wanted..." Miles makes sure the two in the corner aren't watching them anymore, then straightens his back and cocks an eyebrow with a wry twist to his mouth. "'Babe, I'm sick and tired of being woken up at two in the morning by fistfights and people's dogs. At least hipsters set a _schedule_.'" Mr. Brock claps and roars (making the other two in the room jump in their seats), which means his impression was spot-on. "Yeah, that was a direct quote. We also wanted a change of pace. Everything looks different in a different neighborhood and we needed a _lot_ of different. It's been a..." Miles can't help it anymore and he pinches at his wrists. "...crazy few years."

"...Yeah." His old mentor responds, sobering suddenly, and he looks away, like there's something on the wall. When Miles looks there's nothing there. "Hear, hear."

It's quiet for a few moments. At least, superficial quiet. Miles _swears_ he can still hear Susan chomping away at that salad down the hall. It starts to get uncomfortable, though, and Mr. Brock's gaze is anywhere _but_ the Center.

"...I was going to apply for the youth program." He continues, before the silence can drag, desperate to tug the happier Mr. Brock back into the room. "Uh, for my junior and senior year. I was looking at my leftover prep and they have volunteer work as a possible choice." Miles shrugs. "I mean, if you need any help...?"

"...Oh, we could _always_ use help." Miles winces. He was kinda insinuating he could work with _him_ , rather than being saddled with someone he didn't know. "That's not going to change as long as the city's pulling out more money for 'promising tech innovations' and leaving entire neighborhoods stuck in renovation limbo. We may look a little nicer now, but the paint job's skin deep."

Uh-oh. An Eddie Brock Rant was coming on. It'd mean twenty or thirty extra minutes in the rec room, and it was hard to stop him once he got going, but a small part of him would just be glad to hear him sounding more like he used to. He doesn't launch into a diatribe about gentrification or journalistic integrity, though. Just sighs and rubs a hand over his face like even _that_ sentence wore him out.

"Yeah, not that much has changed, for better and for worse." He pauses, then peeks through his fingers at him. "...You, uh, didn't talk to Susan, by any chance?"

"U-Uh." Miles glances at the doorway. "I...saw her, yeah? Just for a second, I had to get directions 'cause they changed the place around a lot..."

"Aw, _Jesus_..." He throws his head along the back of the chair and groans at the ceiling. "What did she say about me?"

"Oh, what? Nothing."

"Come on, you can tell me. I won't share this with anyone, promise." Miles squirms in his chair. If there's one thing he didn't miss about Mr. Brock, it was the guy's nosiness. He _never_ let anything go.

"That, um...you don't...you don't have a job?" It wasn't a lie, not really. He just wasn't telling the rest of it. Mr. Brock huffs and does a bitter little half-smile.

"Don't see why _that's_ a point to judge. Most of us don't. It's why most of us are here." He narrows his eyes and leans forward a little. "That it?"

"Y-Yeah."

Miles pretends to notice something on his sweater. The absolute last thing he needs is a new reputation as the kid always starting shit at the Center. Susan probably already thought he was a dope and he _totally_ flubbed that reunion with Flash. It was so obviously male pattern baldness! Guy probably felt hideous now. A woman walks in right as he's thinking of another dodge, super short and with a long black ponytail bouncing all over the place as she swings her head around and tries to find something (or someone) in the room. She's _really_ pretty. Miles ducks his head down so he doesn't look too obvious staring, even though he's crowing on the inside at _finally_ being given a convenient out from the convo.

"Hey, Tanny. Need something?" Mr. Brock asks. She gives him a dry smile, turns on one heel and walks right back out without saying a word. "Wait, I can... _ah_." He rubs the top of his head, casting a resigned glance his way. "That was, uh, Tanaka. Must be looking for her daughter." A pause. "She's studying to be a veterinarian. Plays a mean game of tennis."

Miles smiles, stiffly. _God_ , this is awkward. He'd ask what _that_ was all about, but it seems like the Golden Community Center got up to a _lot_ of drama while he was away, with Mr. Brock at the center of a lot of it. He doesn't want to look too deeply into that. Into _any_ of this, if he can help it. Not with something finally going well. The man is staring mournfully at the door now and Miles thinks maybe it's _his_ turn to provide a distraction.

"...I'm starting to work out." He offers. Mr. Brock's eyes focus on him again.

"...Yeah?" He puts his chin in his hand. "I can tell. Running?"

"Yeah. Mostly. It's why I'm still skinny, since I'm always sitting in front of the computer like every other Gen Z'er." He flexes as hard as he can. "Been doing pull-ups, though." The man purses his lips and nods, eyes glinting with approval. "You still go to the gym?" Miles kicks himself inwardly. Dang it. He kind of already _asked_ that!

"'Course. Five days a week." He doesn't even seem to notice his flub. "You keeping up your iron intake? Iron deficiency's on the rise, you know."

"...Um."

"Ha! Yeah, yeah. Swap the chips and soda for trail mix, kid. I mean it. You'll feel better." He gets that searchlight look in his eyes again and Miles is already dreading what will come next. "How are your nerves doing?"

The mental breakdowns in New York...the nightmares two-to-three times a week...the weird on-and-off visions. Oh, he really _wants_ to share, kind of like they used to back in the day, but his brain is already threatening to shut down like an overheated laptop. Miles quickly creates a tl;dr version in his head, then shares with him the basics he's learned about coping. He'd only gone to cognitive behavioral therapy for a few months, one he couldn't even be totally honest about, but he'd still picked up a few useful little habits. 'Little' still being the key word of the day. His _life_ , really.

"...because mental health saps your energy throughout the day my therapist told me to come up with a sort of, uh...toolkit or box of self-care habits to fall back on. I game a lot, so I came up with the idea of a mental health 'inventory', 'cause in RPGs you're always, like, gathering loot and picking up all sorts of stuff on your adventure, but not everything is actually _useful_ , and the same goes for mental health, right? There's a lot of crap...uh, garbage...being pushed around as advice and it can _hurt_ more than help, so I thought that'd be a good way at looking at my journey with anxiety..." Miles abruptly realizes he spoke without taking more than a breath and fidgets. "Sorry, I'm not losing you, am I?"

Mr. Brock, who's been watching him without blinking the whole time, shakes his head and gives him a warm smile.

"Not at all. That's _seriously_ creative, kid."

Miles blinks, then squirms in his chair again, smiling at his shoes.

"...Dropped some of that loot today, though. Forgot my headphones this morning." He sighs. "Got so frazzled about... _everything_...I didn't grab them. Forgot my cat's cradle string, too. It's stupid, I usually leave all my mental health stuff in a pile on my drawer..."

Mr. Brock blinks, then rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and shoves a hand in his pocket. After a moment he pulls out a black and red tangle.

"Got earbuds. They're a little old, but they still work."

"What?" Miles holds up his hands. "Oh, no, they're yours..."

"Nah, it's fine. You need them more than I do." He pushes them into his hands with a smile. Miles returns it shyly.

"T-Thanks."

"Speaking of self-care..." Mr. Brock rolls back his sleeve to reveal new tattoos. Miles doesn't even have to ask if those have nicknames, too. "Got some new ink. Let me introduce you to Bud and Lou."

Miles laughs and peers closer at the stylized wolves (or dogs?) winding up his bicep. "Oh, kinda like Harley's hyenas? That's so dope."

"Thought of getting a little satellite, too. Back of my shoulder, maybe." He pats at his broad back. "I think Kaeki's starting to rub off on me."

Miles thinks back to that tiny girl and her sticker-face in the hallway. His stomach sinks when Mr. Brock's phone buzzes, again, and he gets that tired look on his face, _again_. Like he wants to lay down, but can't. Miles looks somewhere else when he takes the call. Thanks to his enhanced senses he has no choice but to listen to every single word, though, and the way the man sounds _totally_ wound-up. He can hear the other person on the line clearly and they're worked up, too.

" _-it's real bad, she can't even go to the hospital, not since her alibi doesn't add up-_ "

Alibi? For...what? No...no, it's none of his business.

"I can't, I gotta put in my minimum..." Mr. Brock is muttering, standing and pacing and rubbing the back of his neck. "I know...I know, I'm sorry..."

" _-else is going to do it, then? You said you used to report on things like this, didn't you? Can't you just talk to someone-_ "

"They're not going to listen to me, come on. I got a life, you know, I can't drop everything I'm doing and risk missing _another_ nightly rate-"

" _-'cause you're too fucking **good** for us, is that it, never mind, then-_ "

When the person on the other end finally stops to take a breath Mr. Brock leans a hand against the table, tapping his foot on the floor and staring at something on the wall. Miles looks over. There's still nothing there.

"Um, I can leave if you're busy..." He whispers.

"It's...work." A shake of his head. "That's all."

' _I thought he didn't have a job._ ' Miles thinks, already frustrated at that nosy woman and her gossip, at all the tiny little bumps in the road that are going to trip him up once he starts coming by here regularly for his school obligations, he can already tell. "No, no, whatever, it's fine. I can come back another time..."

The man fixes him with a meaningful stare over his shoulder, eyebrows raised and chin tilted down, and Miles obediently stays put until the call's over. Yeesh. He's reminded of his _mom_. More tense muttering from Mr. Brock. More cussing from the phone's speaker that makes him _really_ glad he's not on the receiving end. It's a relief when it's over. Instead of picking up the conversation again, though, he just starts scrolling through the screen with a pinch to his brow.

"...Mr. Brock?" The man does that little jerky shiver, like he just woke up. Miles _could_ make up an excuse and hurry on out so he doesn't intrude on his day even more. It's really tempting, after all his fuck-ups. Instead he coughs up some different words entirely. "...Are you okay?"

Mr. Brock blinks, slowly, and looks down at him, staring for a few very, _very_ long seconds.

"...Come on. You don't need to keep calling me that." He eventually says, breaking his gaze and pocketing his cell with a very small smile. "Not Mr. Brock. Not anymore."

Miles swallows, then tries a joke to lighten the mood.

"...Not even Newsbro?"

Mr. Brock could come up with an idea out of thin air like he'd been planning it for _days_. The man asked him, all the way back when they were figuring each other out, if he'd like a nickname better than Mophead or Urkel. Miles had been 100% against it. It was pretty much just setting him up for failure and, most of all, he didn't _know_ the guy yet. It could've been something just as mean. Something _racist_. At the time he was worried most about comments on, of all things, his ugly t-shirts. Every time little Miles saw clothes he _actually_ wanted to wear he never bothered, because the one time he came to school wearing a nice top a boy called him a tryhard pussy and dumped soda all over the front.

Either he wore something nice and got punished or wore something ugly and punished himself. Miles learned it was often safer not to bother.

He later saw how Mr. Brock always had a nickname for everybody at the Center and realized it was...different. 'Brick' for Madison. 'Dynamo' for Ross. It was never anything nasty -- at worst kind of obnoxious -- and soon he...kind of wanted one. _Really_ wanted one, actually. Something to help him fit in and stop standing out so much. Maybe even be liked. Thing was, he'd felt so _bad_ for telling him no the first time, and he spent weeks waffling over how he should ask. It was a whole month later when he came up with the bright idea of giving _him_ a nickname. It's _so_ dumb in hindsight -- he could've just asked like a normal person -- but it worked.

" _Newsbro, huh?_ " Mr. Brock had been surprised for all of one whole second, then he jumped on top one of the desks in the old lunchroom and started pulling poses like a bodybuilder. He made Miles laugh so hard he snorted his Pepsi. " _Flexing those headlines and making all the reporters swoon!_ "

Flash had screamed at him so hard he turned pink: " _I swear if you don't get off that goddamn table before you break your fucking neck, Eddie!_ "

He didn't give him one immediately, though. To his surprise Mr. Brock asked him his thoughts and what would sound good to _him_. Miles had mulled over it long and hard and eventually admitted he wanted to turn a bad thing...into a good thing. So he picked the fact he was a tiny pussy always on the run from something or another and Eddie Brock, the epic jock, knighted him 'Little Speedster'. Because Miles could outrun just about anybody. He could also think at the speed of light, even if his thoughts often turned into a roaring whirlwind of garbage. He was quick, he was small...and that was a _good_ thing. Even _cool_.

The memory isn't as warm as it used to be. Not with that tight, rueful expression spreading over Mr. Brock's face.

"...Ah, geez. Didn't think you remembered that." He runs fingers through his limp hair. "You'll have to come up with something new for me, then." A quick smile that drops almost immediately. "I'm...I'm not that anymore, either."

' _God. You're such an **idiot** , Miles_.' He feels that burning sensation, right behind his eyes and threatening to spill over like this morning, and he wonders if the rest of today's going to amount to a blanket-over-head day, after all. ' _Just go ahead and rub in the fact he's jobless while you're at it_.'

"Guess I...I could call you Brock." He offers. It's not first-name basis, but it's not a bad nickname, either, and maybe it could be another apology. The man huffs out a laugh.

"Sure, kid. Like that Digimon character."

"Pokémon?"

"Oh, that's what I meant."

A bunch of adults and kids start shuffling in. A meeting or an event happening soon in the rec room, probably. Miles stands up straight and takes in a deep breath through his stomach. It doesn't really give him more confidence, but he pretends it does, and the split-second fantasy does the trick.

"Um...I'm glad you're back. Back here. I didn't think I would see you again, actually, so this is...really cool. I had a lot of fun last time. I know it was a while ago, and I know it was for college, but it meant a lot, you being there, or... _here_...and..." It's a shitty speech and it's only going to get shittier the more he drags it out, so he sighs and tl;dr's it. "...and I just wanted to say...thanks. For putting up with me."

"Hey. Come now, none of that 'putting up' nonsense. I'm glad _you're_ back, Speedster." His smile drops, right with his shoulders. "I'm sorry if I was a bit, uh, off today. It's not you, kid. I mean that. Just one of those days."

"Yeah. I know about _those_ days." Miles nods. He's already planned out his home nap in great detail. "Not gonna blame you there. Actually, I'm...I'm really sorry for snapping at you like that..."

"Hey, it's fine, shrug it off. Your better days are just around the corner." Mr. Brock's smile is beginning to sag. His hug, however, is just as warm as it ever was. "You're the little bit of hope this place needs."

Miles isn't, but it's such a _nice_ thing to say, and it wouldn't be very nice to throw that in the man's face, would it? He doesn't actually have to rush back home, not after what mom told him, but he makes an excuse to leave...though not before telling him he's got to come over for dinner sometime (and he makes a mental note to actually ask mom about that later). Flash calls out to him when he walks toward the Center's front doors. Miles waves, but he's completely talked out, and he ducks his head low as he walks back out into the glare of the day. At the very least walking makes it easier for his thoughts to loop without really sticking to anything, but it also means they run at a million miles per hour instead of a thousand.

The day's not even over yet and he already feels like he could burrito up and sleep for _weeks_.

He drops by a corner deli. Against his better instinct he thinks about what Susan said. All the crime. The homeless sitting on street corners and begging with cardboard signs. Maybe one of _them_ should've gotten bitten by that spider. Maybe those powers could've saved them. It was something else he could blame his uncle and his father for, not like he really _needed_ the extra help. He browses quickly, skipping over the bags of chips (even though they're _calling_ to him) and breathes a sigh of relief when he walks back out with a granola bar and a bottle of orange juice. Another check off his list.

It's only a few minutes to fill out the application's basics. There are no more ghosts, but he doesn't take chances and lingers near the tiny park by the Center as long as he can, even though he's already feeling the bone-deep exhaustion that comes with too much conversation and too much people in one day. Even then, despite nothing else happening to him, no surprise soccer balls or game consoles to the head, his spidey-sense is going haywire, and he has _no_ idea why. He reaches into his pocket for his iPod, now that he's got some headphones to go with it, and realizes with a cold start...he forgot to pick it up when he ran.

...Great.

He picks himself a nice, quiet little spot between some bushes and pulls out the earbuds Mr. Brock gave him. He could still make do. It takes a little time to get it to obey his shaking fingers, but they're pretty long, and soon he's got them detangled and wrapped around his fingers. Miles nibbles on the tip of his tongue as he works up a cup and saucer in a spontaneous cat's cradle, as much as he _can_ with the length, and his heart rate starts to even out after a few minutes.

It's these sort of days his sick brain will drag him kicking and screaming into a fear fantasy or daydream. Instead today's an old memory. One that doesn't even need a backbeat.

_"Um...um, excuse me? S-Sir, I wanted to know if...um...there's a fundraiser and...and we need volunteers..."_

_"You're in the way, kid."_

_"Oh, sorry, I'm sorry..."_

_Miles shuffles out of the way of two laughing men in grey suits. He'd tried to get their attention, raising his voice as loud as he could, but the venue was loud, he was tiny, it was hard for him to shout so much, anyway, and...nobody pays any attention to him, even then. He barely gets three minutes in trying to promote the new fundraiser for underprivileged kids at the Golden Community Center before he's hanging his head and slinking back out the door to where his mentor was waiting. Not one flyer taken. His thick arms are crossed into a tight knot and he's frowning down at him, but not angrily._

_"Let's go get something to eat, Speedster."_

_Mr. Brock lets him pick a song on the radio. He talks about something on the news he doesn't really understand in his car, but he nods and pretends he gets what 'passive-aggressive microaggressions' and 'classist douchebaggery' means. Over a sloppy burger and pile of fries by the beach he finally lets out how he's feeling._

_"...Hate being little. Feel like I'm a grain of sand." Miles puffs bubbles into his cup of Pepsi. "A dumb grain of sand that nobody likes."_

_"If it makes you feel better I'm the shortest guy at the gym. Don't let these guns fool you." Mr. Brock pauses to take a big bite, then leans forward when Miles fiddles with his straw. "Hey, hey. None of that now, come on. What's wrong with being little?" He swallows, then wipes his mouth with a napkin and nods at him. "Being little is a pretty big thing, actually!"_

_Miles sighs and pokes a fry into the puddle of ketchup seeping through his napkin. Oh, boy. Another speech about how he's wrong about his feelings. A gull squawks at him. He tosses a fry to it._

_"Woah, hey, don't feed 'em. They'll follow you forever." His mentor chides. "Listen. I've worked in the business for a few years now. Little things? They're **everything**." The man sets down his burger and sits up straight, not speaking until Miles looks up at him. "See that? It's the difference between whether or not you look professional or look like a slouch. Would you wanna hire a guy who looks like this?" Mr. Brock suddenly slumps in his seat and scowls. Miles almost smiles and shakes his head. "Yeah, neither would I. How about this?" He puts on a big smile, then drops it. "This is the difference between making a best friend or making a brand new enemy."_

_Miles nibbles at his fry, swinging his feet as he listens. Another squawk. Three gulls this time._

_"When I first applied for the job they told me I might not be able to cover the news. Go up in front of the camera and talk about all sorts of stuff happening in the city. Know why?" Miles shakes his head. "I had a speech impediment. Smallest thing, but it tripped me up. Know what a speech impediment is?" He shakes his head again. "Means, according to everyone, I talk funny. I used to talk like this, when I was your age, and it took me years to hammer out that pitch-perfect newsroom speak." Miles blinks when he switches from one voice to another, just like that. ...Woah. "I mean...I still kind of have it, I guess, but people can't tell as much now. Anyway, I'm getting off-track. Just pronouncing a few words funny had my editors all in a tizzy."_

_"So..." His mentor sometimes lost him, but he never treated him like he was stupid, and Miles pokes at his burger as he thinks on what he said. "That means...I gotta change who I am?"_

_"What? No, no, I didn't say that." One of the birds tries to bounce toward the table. Eddie waves an ankle at it and it flaps away. "Hey, get back. Paying customers only."_

_"But...you had to change how you talk so people wouldn't make fun of you."_

_Mr. Brock's eyes get really big. Like he's totally shocked. He starts to say something...then he chokes on his next bite. He starts hacking and coughing and hitting his chest with one fist a few times. One of the waitresses asks him if he's okay and he waves her away, though he's more pink than a grapefruit. Miles starts to get off his chair, terrified he might have to do the Heimlich maneuver. He's way too tiny to pull that off!_

_"Ah, ow. ...Okay, yeah, that's true, I guess." He finally says, wheezing and chugging his glass of water. "Phew. Didn't make me feel all that great, though. Why can't we have news anchors with a lisp? With a different sort of accent? Doesn't make all that much sense. It's the way God made me. You're the way God made you. Should be good enough...right?" He gets a funny look on his face. Mr. Brock pulled a lot of faces, but this one seems different, somehow. Maybe it's 'cause he nearly died. "...Look. The little things have big consequences. Like a little chunk of food in your esophagus."_

_Miles doesn't know what an esophagus is, but he agrees with a firm nod. That was really scary._

_"How'd you feel when those dudes kept looking over you today, hm? Didn't feel too good, huh?" He nods when Miles shakes his head. "Yeah. Hurts a lot, but it's just a little thing, right?"_

_"They didn't push me or anything, though..." Miles takes another fry and nibbles on it very, very slowly so he doesn't have a consequence in his esophagus. "I'm just being a crybaby."_

_"Hey, come on now, they don't **have** to push you or anything like that. Sometimes the most hurtful stuff are words, right? Trust me, kid. I work with words everyday. All it takes are a few wrong ones to ruin someone's day._ " He looks at his half-eaten burger. _"My father, he, uh...he sometimes said things that didn't make me feel all that great. When I was your age, actually, and I still remember all of it today, clear as crystal." Miles looks up at him. He shakes his head. "But. Good news. Same goes for good things. What's that, uh...pink critter in that game of yours? The one with the long tail?"_

_"...Mew?"_

_"That's it! Mew. Tiny little thing, but one of the most powerful Pokémons, right?"_

_"Geez, Newsbro. It's not Pokémons." Miles states, fighting back a smile and failing. "It's Pokémon."_

_"Ah, I got you, okay. Still." He looks down at his bicep, then raises a tall eyebrow. "...Could probably beat me in an arm wrestling match."_

_Miles giggles, then squirms and wriggles his arms up into his sleeves so only his fingers are poking out to look like Mew's dinky arms. Mr. Brock chuckles, finishing up his burger (with much smaller bites this time), wiping his mouth one more time before wadding his napkin up and tossing it across the room into the far trash can. A perfect pitch. One of the other people in the diner claps. Miles gives him a ten with both hands. The man bows happily, then reaches over and knuckles his shoulder._

_"A little bit of good is pretty darn good, kid."_

Miles looks up at the sky.

Much brighter than New York's, somehow. A sky that was either blue as a baby bird egg or more foggy than his head. He has no idea where this urge comes from, but even three years later his powers still don't make sense. It could be something like the colorful echoes, or the side-effects or the hallucinations or _whatever_ they were, somewhere out there where he can't see. It could be someone getting stabbed or mugged just out of sight and his spidey sense was trying to warn him before he got back home.

He untangles the headphone cords, wraps them around his fingers again and starts a new pattern.

_...or it could just be anxiety._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An introduction to the co-lead of POLYCHROMATICADDICT: Miles Morales. Despite doing well in his studies, having a group of online friends and showing a loving (if troubled) relationship with his mother, he's one _very_ stressed teenager. He's struggling over the death of Peter Parker, a tragedy he blames himself for, and, to make matters worse, his estranged uncle will be moving in with the family very soon. On his way to the Golden Community Center to apply for their summer youth program he comes across a stray dog attacking a woman. For the first time in months he uses his powers and attempts to save her with a web, but stops at the last second, panics and flees.
> 
> Not long after he comes across a strange, psychedelic vision, a bizarre phenomenon triggered by his powers and something he doesn't understand.
> 
> He almost has a meltdown and has to reach into his mental health toolbox (or, as he calls it, his 'self-care inventory') several times just to get through the next few hours. He enjoys a happy reunion with Eddie Brock at the Center, his old mentor four years ago when his mother signed him up with a local social work program, and they catch up on various topics of travel, fitness and comics. Something isn't quite right with the man, however, and it's hard for him to put his finger on exactly why.
> 
> He later senses something strange coming from up above, but brushes it off as just more anxiety.
> 
> \--
> 
> Small time jump...introducing Miles Morales! I'll admit, I've only read a _tiny_ bit of Ultimate Spider-Man (in a comic book store when I was casually flipping through titles I was interested in), so a lot of what I'm going off here is general Wiki information, my own interpretation...and dreams. That's part of the fun, admittedly: it's not often I do fanfictions before I've seen a movie/read a book/etc. ...Or ever, really.
> 
> This was a tough chapter to write, but also a very fun one. A major aspect that appealed to me about Miles is his shy, soft-spoken nature -- a huge contrast to Peter Parker, usually confident even at his nerdiest -- and I wanted to push that to a more extreme degree concerning his mental health. It's interesting to portray him here when he's at the crossroads of major development, too: concerning both his powers and the people in his life.


	3. Stars Maligned? Bright Light Could Have Russian Origins!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for casual ableism, suicidal ideation/discussion, racial stereotyping and whorephobic remarks.
> 
> Chapter Song -- "The Ones That Miss Me" by ARDENCY

A falling star that hits a hotel and lights up every last window, door and lamp in the neighborhood block. A stranger that melted into oil. A gun that fired stardust. People bleeding rainbows and dogs with human faces. Every last vein in his body crawling out of his skin and spreading into black roots that devour the world whole.

Christ alive, he's had crazy dreams before, but never like _that_.

Patchy reruns play in the back of Eddie's mind and fade into fuzz as he comes to, one arm slung over his eyes and a blanket tangled around his legs. He scrubs a hand over his face, instinctively feels along the stubble he's neglected to check over the days, blinks away the bright of his motel room...then blinks again. Then blinks some _more_ , because he's not seeing white spots or stars or double-vision and his damn eyes shouldn't be making _this_ little sense at ten in the morning. Wait... _ten?_ He bolts upright. The blanket falls off his legs and hits the floor.

He's overslept. His bag is by the...door. His laptop on the dresser. His pistol a few inches to the side. A clutter of bottles in the corner he's yet to toss...matching nicely with _another_ clutter of cans in the opposite corner. Eddie runs a slow hand over his mouth.

He should have a hangover. No...no, he should have a gaping hole in his head being filled with quality organic Bay Area _fertilizer_. But for some reason he doesn't have either of these things. No, he's in his tiny motel room feeling better than he has in three years. Than five years, probably. Hell, he doesn't just feel good. He feels _great_. Like he's young enough to skip sleep, party all night _and_ still ace the next day's test-great. Put in an extra hour at the gym and go out on the town with money in his pocket-great. Make up for his fall from grace, get back with his ex-wife _and_ force his father to admit he's not the world's most successful failure-great.

...Well.

Eddie toes aside a stray bottle as he gets to his feet and stretches out the crooks in his neck that _also_ aren't there. He checks his pulse, counting out his heartrate in his head, then shrugs up his shirt and gives it a test-sniff. Yuck. He rolls it off and tosses it onto his meager pile of dirty laundry before shuffling into the bathroom. He craves the gym's showers when the water turns cold after a whopping _two_ minutes and leaves him groping for his lone towel. He pats off, wipes at his neck, ruffles his hair...then drags the towel down his face and stares at his soggy reflection.

Feeling great...God, that was the problem.

He doesn't know how to begin sorting out the sinking disappointment _and_ nauseating relief that he's still breathing. Loose-limbed and clear-headed and without a hangover, but it's been so long since he's felt _good_ it doesn't feel right. Like a bunched up sock in his shoe he keeps trying to shake back into place. How does he even plan out his day now that he's back in the thick of it all (two hours late, the cheap dresser clock reminds him)?. Where does he start? Most importantly...how the hell did he get back _here?_

A prickle along his skin. He glances at the far window. The blinds are still shut. His bathroom door is open. ...No. No, he's well and truly alone. He's been trying not to take clients home, anyway.

' _Might've called someone_.' Eddie thinks as he turns back and tries to fingercomb his damp hair into something resembling a hairstyle. ' _Yeah. Yeah, I might've phoned Brick. She picked me up once when I relapsed...granted, that was a while ago, but her number's still in my phone, just in case. Unless I deleted it. I was deleting a lot of things on the way over..._ '

Eddie digs around for his cell, first in his discarded jeans, then in the rumpled bedsheets, but it's nowhere to be found. What the hell? He's lost a _lot_ of things over the years, but that was one of the few items he practically kept connected to his hip. His headphones are gone, too, but it only takes a few seconds to at least remember why _that_ is. Right...he gave them to Miles. Hopefully the kid was getting in some quality anti-anxiety time with those. He walks past his bed to tug up the blinds and let some sunlight in, the only conclusion he's come to is he got smashed, got robbed and _still_ got a ride back to his motel. ...Somehow.

"A former investigative journalist who can't even figure out how he got back to his room after a scotch session. That's one for the record books." Eddie mutters as he flicks on the television to one of its twelve free channels. He goes back into the bathroom to get rid of his morning breath. The _one_ detail in his weird morning that made sense.

" _Summer will be a little late, thanks to some unexpected rainfall, but expect next week to start looking up._ " The weather report chatters cheerfully. " _Tourist season is kicking off with a little of San Francisco's very own June gloom. While we may reach the mid-70's later in the week expect a lot of humidity on your way to a classic summer..._ "

Eddie digs through his bare cabinet for floss and sighs when he finds none. He tugs out a hair and attempts to make do, poking it in-between each gum with surgical precision. Best to get this over with now.

" _You know where to find the latest reports on the weather. Now for your daily dose of the news back at the studio..._ "

He's almost out of toothpaste. Eddie rolls the wrinkled tube up as tightly as he can to squeeze out that last little dime.

" _Thanks, Harold. It's not the uneven weather or even the new statue being erected of O'Sullivan in Central Sunset that have people talking today. No, residents and tourists alike are still discussing the mysterious event that happened at approximately 8:47 p.m. last night..._ "

Eddie leans out of the bathroom doorway to squint at the screen.

" _Some say it's a satellite. Others? A missile. We do know one thing...this will go down in history as one of the strangest events ever seen in our city. Here's a brief clip of the incident donated from one of our viewers..._ "

The video goes fullscreen. It's on someone's cellphone, their fingers blurring the edges as they angle the camera past the swiveling heads and pointing fingers. A bright blue light is sinking down from the sky, winking through the sunset's leftover gray. When it hits the top of the building the camera abruptly wobbles, the owner gasping with awe as the sky flashes with the intensity of a firework. Lights burst out of every last window and travel all the way down to the ground, like the hotel was filled with a thousand flash grenades...followed by a deafening _thud_ that has the crowd screaming. A flurry of dust rolls up and wafts over their heads in a rush of gray. The video cuts off.

" _Thankfully our anonymous viewer was unharmed, if a little shaken by what they witnessed. We have our very own Mia on the scene now-_ "

The screen cuts to a sharply dressed correspondant standing in front of a tall building, halfway crushed inward like an impacted tooth, surrounded by busy street sweepers and a gaggle of nosy on-lookers. It's sunny, but only just, with enough of a gray morning haze to support the weather reporter's predictions.

" _Thanks, Sophia. As you know, an as-of-yet unidentified object was seen hitting The North Erudite Hotel last night. Over forty people have experienced minor to moderate injuries from raining debris, slipping and falling, including five cases of severe hearing damage. No deaths have been reported, though three have had to be hospitalized..._ "

Eddie drifts toward the television as if possessed. He pats a hand around him idly to find the very edge of the mattress, then slowly leans down with his toothbrush hanging crooked from his mouth.

" _There have also been a few interesting reports of auditory disruption and strange shapes in the sky, though these have been suggested to be merely a natural symptom of shock and stress during the incident. Local officials are stating the light is most likely a fallen satellite, though further study still needs to be done from the remains that ended up burned on impact. As of now The North Erudite Hotel and a few businesses have been closed to let cleaning crews in to sweep up the mess...._ "

The toothbrush drops to the floor, smearing the last of his hard-earned toothpaste all over the carpet. ... _It wasn't a dream._

" _While surrounding buildings have sustained minor to moderate damages, the hotel faces the brunt of the incident. It will be out of commission for at least two weeks for repairs. Travelers are being accommodated by The North Erudite in the form of future free nights for all room types and weekend discounts on top of their relocation to Stella Pacific..._ "

"God, that's..." He whispers, just before he looks down. "...Ah, _hell_." Eddie groans under his breath and picks up the now-hairy utensil, jogging to the bathroom to go clean it off (and wipe minty slobber off his chest). "A fallen satellite..." His science was a little rusty, but... "Wouldn't that burn up in the atmosphere or something?"

Probably PR to keep people from panicking. Not that the public wouldn't have a good _reason_ to, with the potential for foreign contaminants and whatnot. Nicolas would probably have something to say about that, provided he was still studying environmental science (or was it civil engineering?). God, Eddie _wishes_ he could've been on the scene. He technically _had_ been, really. Close enough to see the hotel light up like a sparkler and see the entire block go up in a windstorm. Even the gravity had felt different! He's _mostly_ sure being drunk had nothing to do with it.

When it goes to commercial Eddie puffs up his chest and imagines how he'd relay the story. Nothing like the disaffected drone of the on-site reporter. Trying her best, of course, but clearly a little green around the ears. It just wasn't the right affect for a situation like this. Not with people both fascinated _and_ worried out of their wits.

"Let's not worry until we get all the facts." He's still able to pull off a classic newsroom voice, even though he's had no reason to use it for a while. "We're better off just relaying safety precautions so nobody gets a disease just trying to go to school." He waves his hand in a matter-of-fact. "Of course, there's no reason to talk to _me_ , is there, when you got the 415's best scientists on the case..."

Eddie winces. Ah. His mush-mouth almost came through with that last one. He feels a very compelling urge to kick over the television.

Against his better instincts he thinks back to that dream. The falling as-of-yet-unidentified-object was real, _that_ much was now clear, which means he has to start considering the rest. Hell, even when he was constantly on the hunt for his next high he didn't see things as strange as the chaos he's remembering. Maybe it's just a bunch of noise, because he was depressed and suicidal and _hammered_ , but it all keeps lingering in the back of his mind. Shadowy blobs and psychadelic colors. Someone's...voice. Talking to him. Were they the same person who took him home? He switches off the bathroom light and checks his wallet. ...Yep. The last $30.

Eddie's stomach sinks. He's sure, even blackout drunk, he _still_ would've given them a tip for their thoughtfulness.

Mary loved to psychoanalyze dreams, but even she'd probably have no clue what the hell his subconscious was up to. He casts a slow, morose look around his room. He's only been awake an hour and it already feels weird thinking about all these people in his life. The family and friends he thought he'd never see again. Who probably would _hate_ him for what he tried to pull, if last night happened the way he thought it did. The reporter is moving through the crowd and interviewing witnesses now. Eddie feels another compulsion to act out another fantasy in front of the camera. This time as an ordinary man, perhaps on a jog or visiting a friend for lunch, being accosted for a fast opinion.

"Oh, I was there!" Eddie raises his eyebrows, then finishes with a laugh. "Yeah, yeah. Everyone's got their theories, but what matters most is nobody got hurt. I seriously don't think we have an Independence Day-situation on our hands here, anyway. It didn't even land on the White House."

His newsroom speech slips again and he's horribly embarrassed, despite the obvious fact he's pulling poses alone in his underwear. He looks to the now-open window, unable to shake the feeling he's being watched and _judged_. It seems whatever he drank and/or smoked gave him some leftover paranoia. ...That or God really _was_ scowling at him from the clouds wondering what the hell he was doing. Eddie storms over to his box kitchen and decides to get some food in his system. His stomach's grumbling could be heard from space. He squints into the sorry state of his fridge: a jar of organic peanut butter, nearly empty. One last beer in a six-pack box. A cold trail mix bar.

Bon appétit. He unwraps it, drags a butter knife through the rest of the peanut butter and scrapes it on top before gnawing away.

" _Multiple people have reported migraines and strange sightings near the area._ " Mia is saying to a squat man in the crowd. " _You said you were nearby when the hotel was hit?_ "

" _Yeah, yeah, just walking by. I always pass The North Erudite on my way home from work. One minute I hear people screamin', next minute I'm wakin' up under a bridge..._ "

He's only half listening now. Eddie has woken up to a breaking headline...and the downward spiral of his life started with a breaking headline. His job. Then his credibility. Then his marriage. Then his house. Then his sanity. One after another after another after another in classic domino fashion.

He'd fucked up. He'd fucked up _royally_ , then fucked up a little bit more for good measure. Everyone knew Eddie Brock to be the rare good glue holding journalism together in the 415. A man who gave a shit and a half about an honest story and was more interested in the life and times of everyday people than bullshit gossip columns or taking potshots at young folk. That's the reputation he got. It was the reputation he _wanted_. He'd worked hard to get it even before he graduated. Ten times more so as he moved from travel journalism to editing to _finally_ landing a spot as an investigative journalist.

...Then he'd been assigned to report on a gruesome murder case. Of all the ones to fuck up on...he'd chosen _that_ one. The memory of his 'resignment' is practically scrawled into his skin.

" _Just... **fucking** hell, Eddie. We've had to talk to lawyers, all right? All damn week. Reassure our readers and try to mollify their outrage, which isn't easy with social media, you know. We're making up for years of hard work here._ " His boss hadn't even looked at him. " _You've taken a lot of time from us, Eddie. I don't know if you can bounce back from this._ "

Eddie crumples up the wrapper and goes to wash out the peanut butter jar. Maybe...maybe God is taking pity on him now. Maybe he's finally, _finally_ suffered enough for his mistake. It doesn't seem possible, after all these years, but... _maybe_.

"Lord...I don't know _how_ you did it." Eddie pauses in the middle of opening up his cabinet, makes a finger-gun motion with his hand and stares at it wonderingly. "Could've sworn I had it...right here in my hand..."

He suddenly grips his hair.

"Fuck." He whispers...then slams the cabinet door shut, again and again and again. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck!_ "

The weak wooden door pops right off its hinges. Eddie stares at it for a hot second, then _flings_ it into the sink and hits his back against the opposite wall, holding his head and breathing hard through his nose. ...It was supposed to be in his brain. It was supposed to be in his _brain._ He'd spent months working himself up and now he's here, back in the thick of his own perfectly constructed mess, and he can't _do this_. Eddie all but flees to his bed, desperate for his emergency beer stash, and freezes only when he passes the bathroom doorway. He slowly walks backwards, stepping inside at an angle and exposing his neck to the mirror.

A smudge. Eddie pushes his shirt over his shoulders and turns around fully. A black mark preading all over his upper back and left shoulderblade like spilled ink on paper.

...A shy touch at first. A firmer press that splays out his fingers. New...ink? A _bruise?_ Holy hell, how much did he drink? What did he _take?_ He didn't do shrooms anymore, nor hang out with the crowd that _did_. Last time he got a drunk tattoo was back when he was getting his degree and it was just a small addition to the collage coating his arms and chest. He rubs at it with the flat of his palm, hoping it's just some Sharpie stain from hell. No dice. Eddie pours hot water into his hand and splashes it on. Claws at it with blunt nails. Scrubs it with extra soap. Soon his skin is red and swollen and the mark hasn't budged one inch.

"...Okay." He says, because the day isn't strange enough and he should at least _acknowledge_ its weird sense of humor. "All right, then. Fine. Just pencil it in."

All right. No drinking. At least, not until tonight. He actually has time to figure this out now. Rome wasn't built in a day, after all. Eddie pulls out his laptop, turns it on and connects to the motel's Wi-Fi.

Anne...she told him to contact him if he needed anything, but that sentiment had been relayed so coldly, so _flatly_ , that he'd been torn on whether or not she actually meant it. Would a simple greeting be welcome after three and a half years? Even though his greeting would be anything _but_ simple. Eddie grinds his teeth. Maybe he should wait a little longer. Wait until he had an actual apartment to his name instead of a dingy one-bed. ...Then again, maybe not. He got a second chance. Those had deadlines. No, he can't pass this up.

It's just one e-mail. It can't hurt. Eddie paces back and forth as he mutters a quick draft out loud to spot any flaws. No typos, just long enough, not half bad when he takes everything into account: a well-wishing after the not-comet-not-satellite is his opening line, with a follow-up about her health. That was innocuous enough, even though she didn't even live close enough for it to affect her like that. He taps in his signature and sends it her way. He puts a pot of hot water on, then reviews a few (increasingly irate) messages from Flash on his instant messaging. That just leaves...

He waffles on this decision for far longer, stomping back and forth in his meager kitchen for fifteen solid minutes while his pot coughs steam into the kitchen. A pissed-off _thump-thump_ beneath his feet tells him his downstairs neighbors are none too happy about the habit and he reluctantly sits down again (even though they _never_ seemed to have any trouble having the loudest sex possible in the middle of the damn night). Eddie drums up a much longer e-mail to Mary than he means to and hits send. He starts typing one to Carl, but they ultimately read more as rants than check-ins, and he'd rather avoid the headache.

"Wasn't built in a day." He mutters, deleting the third draft and logging out.

Eddie reuses an old teabag from the (now broken) cabinet. It's pretty used up and he has to roll each sip around in his mouth to get any flavor as he checks his contacts (nothing yet), then browses social media. The constant scroll of news and entertainment is pleasantly distracting, but not distracting enough as the rest of his week presses in on him. God, he is _not_ looking forward to filling out his financial information at the nearest walk-in clinic. Much less the questions about the mark _and_ the state of his liver. He starts bouncing between the profiles of people he knows and knew, if only to fantasize about better realities that weren't his.

" _babies coming soon!!! cute y/n?_ " Tanaka posing with a right fluffball of a mutt at a veterinary clinic, grinning and holding up its tiny paws in the air.

"Real cute." He mutters with a sigh, backing out and clicking another post.

" _Brunch with my daughter. Staying positive. Always thanking God for another day with the family. xoxoxo_ " Claire laying in bed. Mary smiling at the camera and angling it over the plate of eggs and bacon by the cot. A small pot of flowers with a greeting card on the side-table.

Eddie stares for too long. Reaches out to leave a comment, then stops. A like, maybe...then stops. He backs out.

One post in particular snaps him out of his fugue. A sudden memory of dark eyes, clean sheets and the tang of weed. Nicolas...was going to be in _town?_

What are the odds he'd visit right after Eddie just got back from a two-way trip through his own personal hell? It almost makes him forget just how bizarre the past twenty-four hours(ish) have been. He hasn't seen the guy in years. Not since they were undergraduates staying up 'til two in the morning editing each other's papers and making snack runs in the dead of night. God clearly wasn't done rolling his dice yet, it seems. Eddie mutters a quick word of gratitude, then scrolls through his friend's brief-yet-enthusiastic post about a new lecturing opportunity at state colleges, hungry for more information and coming up dry.

" _We talk green, but do we live green? Find me at the City College Of San Francisco where I'll be meeting with biology students and discussing what it truly means to 'go green'._ "

"You used 'green' too many times there, Nicotine." Eddie chuckles, a creaky smile finally finding its way to his face. "Eco-friendly or sustainable could've worked. Good lead-in, though."

He wouldn't be in San Francisco for another few days. Eddie could meet up with him after seeing his ex-wife (at least, if she accepted his polite poke). Come to think of it, he's going to have to figure out how to squeeze _that_ in alongside sending out contacts and dropping by the gym. Damn, he also needed to make sure Miles was getting a little support for the summer youth program! Eddie lets out a huff and squares his shoulders. Managing a thousand tasks is his specialty. No matter how much of a failed drunk _and_ failed suicide story he was.

' _Maybe some failure is good, in that regard._ ' He thinks to himself as he debates his stubble in his laptop's reflection, only to freeze with horror. ' _...Nah. No. Nope. Not going down that route. Second chance. Second chance._ '

Eddie glances at the window one more time, then shoves the laptop into his bag and goes to tie on his shoes.

* ~ - ~ *

A second chance that has to hit the ground running.

Eddie finds out his bank account was abruptly shut down because of a lack of minimum funds...which the bankers were quite content not to even warn him about until after it happened. He has a _very_ pleasant thirty minute conversation over the bus plaza phone trying to haggle his way into keeping it, but he's sent off with little more than well-wishing fluff. Mary's going to know about it, what with their accounts having been linked for the past eight months or so. Hell, she's probably going to worry her head off. He'll just tell her he found another bank. That's not a _lie_. Not really.

Eddie gets off the bus early, then jogs the rest of the way to The Center, busy as a beehive as it always is at noon.

"You're fucking _late_ , Eddie."

"Come on, Flash. That just means I'm fashionable."

Same hustle and bustle. Same people. Same him. He's overwhelmed by The Golden Community Center, again, filling him up with the vigor of a swig of brandy. Warm and dizzy and making him want to do something reckless. Not even the first time he's felt the urge...or the first time he's done something dangerous in the hopes he'd be turned into a blurb for the local paper. Eddie grits his teeth into a quick smile when Carol walks by carrying a box of art supplies, even though he feels...well, feels like a random satellite dropping into the middle of San Francisco.

Second chance. Break it down. Sort it out. Talking to Flash is a good place to start, even if he _was_ doing his absolute best to look _and_ sound like a bulldog with an airhorn stuck in its throat.

"Fuck you, it means you're full of shit. You got all the fashion of a lazy Sunday. The _one_ time you're late and it's when I need you _here_." The man is already griping at top speed. Susan was going to be in here any minute now, telling them both to put up or shut up. Come to think of it, how the hell was a woman like that _still_ working here? "For cryin' out loud, Eddie, I expected you to _be_ here, when you knew I needed a little help with this presentation. They keep tellin' me the boot camp approach doesn't work. Girl starts bawlin' mid-way and they start asking for _you_ , like you're some showman savant leavin' gold footprints in the fucking dirt-"

"Well, I'm here now, aren't I?" Eddie groans as he rounds the hallway to the locker room. "With language like _that_ I'm starting to think you don't like me or something."

"Oh, shut the hell up. They went and just gave it to Madison, anyway. Tanaka was real pissed I made her daughter upset, like I was doing it on _purpose_ or something, I swear. What'd you say to her, anyway?" Flash rolls over to him, _way_ too quick, and frowns up at him. "She was always chattin' with you. You sleep with her or somethin'?"

Eddie grimaces. No, he didn't. Even though they'd gotten seriously close. It was a weekend lobby renovation when they first started hitting it off. A way to spiff the place up and get some of the newcomers feeling welcome. Tanaka had been brand new and all alone when she showed up at the Center with her odd little daughter in tow. Kaeki was a sweet thing, a little too shy for the busy community building, and just needed a push in the right direction. She reminded him a lot of Miles, really, and Eddie couldn't resist lending a hand when he saw them rolling paint by themselves in the far corner of the cafeteria. Tanaka got to practice her English (already pretty damn impressive), Eddie got a new friend, Kaeki had fun.

It was a picture perfect for a billboard.

Then one night he was feeling bold, for what felt like the first time since he and his wife finalized their divorce papers. It was a month later when they both left the Center, sweaty after a long day changing the lobby layout and exchanging bad puns, Kaeki between them holding their hands and squealing when picked up and swung. When they arrived at Tanaka's apartment he asked to marry her. They liked each other. Kaeki _trusted_ him. They hadn't known each other all that long, sure, but that was just a surface detail for a match made in heaven. He could _finally_ be that ideal husband he wasn't for Anne. The good father he never had. A role model, even.

...Except he was homeless. A drunk. A laughing stock. The exact _opposite_ of his father and every last ideal the man brought him up to respect. He couldn't support her or her kid. Hell, he could barely support _himself!_ After a few beers (and a particularly brutal hangover) he came to the mortifying realization he'd gotten in _way_ over his head.

He apologized profusely to Tanaka the next morning...and she's been cold to him ever since. He's not sure if something got lost in translation or if her feelings were still hurt or both, but he's felt rotten about the whole ordeal ever since.

"...Oh. _Oh_ , you got a story to tell me? Better be good after standin' me up. Just like a-" Flash interrupts himself like his brain was behind on a deadline. " _Hey!_ That's right. Miles was here. He was askin' about you. See, I'm not the only one you've left blowin' in the wind here. Kid looked like he was about to have a heart attack bein' picked to supervise. More jittery than a jumpin' spider, I'll tell you what."

Eddie huffs out a laugh and rummage through his locker's contents. Everything in its place: his spare change of clothes, his cell charger, his woefully short will and five-page suicide note he spent weeks drafting, proofreading and re-writing entirely. Christ, he'd left the door open at a crack and his belongings weren't even _disturbed_. Just like the Golden Community Center to boast better standards than half the chumps in Congress. Eddie glances from side-to-side...then grabs the papers and shreds them, not stopping until he's holding a right snowball of a mess in his hands. ...Huh. Now that he thinks about it, he probably should've kept the will.

"...Fuck's all _that_ about?" Flash peers at the bits that made it to the floor. "Oh, shit, never mind. You didn't answer my text! Did you see that light yesterday? The one that, ah, hit a hotel or somethin' like that?" He holds both hands up in some pantomime of his head exploding. "Seriously, that was _insane_ , man!"

"Yeah, got a front row seat. I was leaving Tendernob when it hit." Eddie leans down and sweeps up the mess. "Right in front of me, practically."

"Wait, what? _Seriously?_ " A look of horror spreads on his face. "That why you didn't reply?"

"That's exactly why. Kind of amazing I didn't get vaporized." He bobs his eyebrows as he dumps it all into the trash. "Looked up some people's thoughts online this morning. They're already blaming it on Russians."

"Tch. They blame _everything_ on Russians." Flash leans forward and lowers his voice to a mutter. "It's so obviously Polish."

Ha. When he wasn't yelling his head off about one thing or another good ol' Flash Thompson was cooking up conspiracy theories to keep himself entertained. They were fun to shoot the shit about, but at the end of the day Eddie was a man who preferred to cross-reference facts. At least, that's what he _wanted_ to be before the Aeronaut. ...No. No, he got a second chance. He wasn't going to go back on it with these thoughts. The lockers' new paint job is just shiny enough for him to double-check his hair, which dried nicely on the way over.

"Well, look at you. Going on a date?" Flash presses. Eddie shrugs a shoulder.

"Maybe."

"Well, if Tanaka doesn't want anything to do with you anymore I think I'll shoot my shot." He pulls off his cap and inspects his crew cut with a critical eye. "I mean, I already know she digs white guys."

"You have my blessing, man. She's a top pick. Just don't yell around her kid."

"Yeah, yeah. Least I won't leave her hanging on a date, huh? Though I could always use a Russian missile as an excuse if traffic gets bad, ha."

Something in Eddie snaps. He slams the locker door shut, whirls on the man right as he's turning around to leave and grabs his chair handle.

"Would you give it a _rest_ already?" He hisses through gritted teeth. "You really think I _like_ you jumping down my throat at one-thirty in the goddamn afternoon? If you feel like building a summer home in my asshole and putting all my issues on full blast you get in fucking line after _everyone else_. I got enough issues to deal with today that don't include you acting like the world's loudest _dick_ in a hat, huh?"

Flash blinks up at him. Eddie blinks back. ...Oh, hell.

"...Yeah, fine, fuck you, too. It was a joke, man." The man's loud cheer fizzles out into a scowl and he turns away. Eddie blinks again, suddenly light-headed, and reaches out a shaky hand.

"Hey, hey, man, I'm sorry, Christ, I...I wasn't thinking-"

"Fuck _off_ , Eddie. You touch my chair again and I punch you in the balls."

He yanks his hand back. The only one more stacked in the Center than him was Flash. His first day back on the planet earth and he already didn't know how to act! Ah, hell in a basket. He's going to have to find a way to make it up to the guy. He was quick-tempered, but it never stuck, not really. Unlike Eddie...who didn't _have_ a temper. Who didn't usually flip his lid over a dumb joke, even one that got under his skin and uprooted all his pretty little insecurities. ...Unless he counts Mary, the other day. Christ. Eddie hunches his shoulders when they both head outside and pretend not to notice each other.

Summer events at the Center are in full swing. Today's an art day. There's a massive wooden board outside, propped against the far wall by the tiny playground with a dozen and a half kids patting their hands all over it. Flowers, faces, a dick and balls. Susan has a little boy pulled off to the side, (probably the culprit), letting him have it while his peers gabber happily and flick paint at each other. Kaeki must have a beacon honed in on his worst moments, because the second she spots him she jumps to her feet and ambles over screaming her head off. Eddie winces at the volume. First Flash, now her? Maybe he _did_ have a hangover after all.

" _Eddie!_ " Kid's got paint all over her dress. He already knows what she's going to talk about. " _Star!_ Star star star, Eddie, did you see?" She points a stained finger at her contribution to the activity. A long blue line. "My drawing. I did this." She cuts off abruptly and peers around his leg at Flash, suddenly going as stoic as a lawn decoration. Flash curses under his breath and rolls off.

"...Ah, yeah. That's real nice." Eddie says, to turn her attention as much to get away from his own embarrassment. "Falling star, right?"

She pushes her bangs out of her eyes. "Spaceship."

Eddie chuckles. Spaceship. Of course. Russian missiles and satellites and falling stars had _nothing_ on a good, old-fashioned-

_-the host died after the supernova and before the red star, and there is no choice but to abandon the shell and search and search and search, only coming back when tttheir strength has been returned in beats and breaths-_

"That's right, Kaeki." Eddie kneels and slowly reaches out to touch it. " _Mmmy spaceship._ "

A loud squawk jerks him back to attention. Kaeki's batting at his hand to keep him from touching the paint. Eddie blinks and looks down at her, then around him. The kids have all stopped painting and are all staring at him. Why is he kneeling? He gets to his feet with a smile and pats off his jeans. He feels like he just tripped on-stage at a school play.

"A-Ah. Yeah, sorry." Another chuckle. A little shaky. The kids return to their drawings, though a few are still peering at him. "Still wet, right."

"Yo, Mr. Brock!"

God in heaven, he can't take any more yelling today. Eddie quickly drops his grimace when he sees Miles jogging up to him, no longer in geek fatigues and sporting red skinny jeans and a Golden Community Center t-shirt, a grin on his face a mile wide. Kid seemed like he was already getting the hang of the Center's activity all over again, even without his help. The realization makes his heart sink. Hopefully he'd still want him around, if that was the case.

"Good to see you, Speedster. We were just talking about that blue light." He nods to Kaeki, back on her knees and dabbing white spots around her drawing. "She's saying it's a, uh, spaceship. Not a bad theory, huh?"

Miles opens his mouth to answer...then just stares at him. Kid could be a little mysterious, but it's one _strange_ look he's giving him right now. That makes him, what, the twentieth kid looking at him funny in the past five minutes? Eddie slowly reaches up and rubs at his chin.

"...What's up? Something on my face?" He glances down at Kaeki. "You see something, you gotta tell me, all right?"

"Okay." She squeaks, rubbing an itch on her face and leaving a smudge of purple. Miles fiddles with his sleeves.

"Oh. Uh. No. Sorry, Brock, it's not that." He laughs, still goggling at Eddie like he suddenly came down with full-body hives. "Sorry, I just...zone out sometimes. Yeah, that light was crazy, for real. Mom's been talking about it all morning. Says it could be a sign of life."

"Yeah." Eddie watches Kaeki as she spells out her name in crooked strokes. "I thought it was a dream, myself."

"Hopefully we don't get any more or this place is screwed." Miles mutters, only to suddenly perk up. "Oh, you going to be here a while? The fingerpainting session isn't done yet."

He wants to, he _really_ does, but...maybe today wasn't the best day to hang out at the Center.

"Sorry, Speedster. I have to hit the gym and get in my hour. These muscles don't train themselves." His heart twists when the kid's face falls, even though he tries to cover it up with a brisk nod. Eddie gives his shoulder a squeeze. "I mean it, kid, we gotta catch up soon. What say you and I go to the arcade or something later this week? Wait, you...still go to those, right?"

"I do, actually, yeah. Just...later in the day, usually." A small shrug, though that eager light is back in his eyes. "Less noisy."

"Yeah." Eddie looks at the children happily patting their hands all over the wooden board. "It's pretty noisy."

"You get overwhelmed in crowds, too?" Miles asks, surprised.

Eddie sighs. It's never bothered him before, but what could he say. It was a _weird_ day.

* ~ - ~ *

"Sorry, not trying to be creepy or anything, you just have a _lot_ of tattoos. Could I take a closer look? Just a peek."

It was hard to leave the Center, but Eddie had enough bad habits without throwing his few good ones into the trash. The rhythmic _clanking_ and _whirr_ of gym equipment has soothed his nerves better than a cup of coffee, so it's not at all hard to smile at the two pretty twenty-somethings peering down at him on the bench. They've been eyeballing him this entire hour and a half, though doing an admirable job pretending they suddenly noticed something over his shoulder every time he looked over. He added an extra twenty to his repetition, just to show off, and it didn't take them long to walk over. Eddie hangs up his weights and rubs sweat from his forehead.

"Yeah, sure. Feel 'em if you want. Just don't smudge the temporary glitter." He barks a laugh at their faces and they giggle back, shifting from foot-to-foot. They were a real cute pair. "Don't get me started on them. I got a hundred stories. Oh, that's Romulus and Remus, right here." He adds when their eyes skate over the twin hounds he got during his time in the pack.

"You're into Roman mythology?" Pixie Cut blinks, leaning on her knees. Curls, on the other hand, is a _lot_ less hesitant about touching him, running fingers up his arm.

"Sure, sure." Eddie flexes a little when she reaches his bicep, enjoying the way her eyes all but light up. "Even took an elective on it back in university. Ah, that one was my first. When I first moved out of the house."

"I was thinking of getting a tattoo this year. It's hard to pick one, but you have, like, a thousand..." Curls is muttering as she picks her way across his torso without straight-up undressing him. Pixie Cut rolls her eyes and hooks a thumb in her shorts, tugging them down to show a tramp stamp. Girl played it a little cooler than her friend, but she's showing a few more inches than she needs to and Eddie can't help but grin.

"Roses and vines." He comments, appreciating the artistry as well as the firm curve of her ass. "Can't go wrong with the classics."

"Thanks." Pixie nods at Curls. "She's just afraid of needles, don't listen to her."

"It's not that, I just can't _pick_ , geez. Ooh, what about this one?" A tap on his shoulderblade that makes his good mood run cold.

... _Hell in a goddamn basket_. Eddie completely forgot about this morning. He twists his head as best he can to look at it, a basic quip already on the tip of his tongue, and feels his throat abruptly turn into sandpaper. ...It's bigger. Much _bigger._ There's no way in hell _or_ heaven he can blame it on a trick of the light, because it's all over the back of his neck. He rolls up his tank and glances at the full-body mirror. It's spread down his shoulderblade...and has starting to curl across the broad flat of his _lower back_. Thankfully they're staring at it and not his _face_ or they'd probably start asking why he's more pale than a sidewalk in summer.

"What's it...supposed to be?" Curls asks, tilting her head from side-to-side.

"Kinda weird." Pixie Cut adds, then holds up a hand. "I mean, not in a _bad_ way."

' _I don't know._ ' Eddie thinks, chuckling to hide his hysteria. ' _I have no idea where it came from or what it's made out of or why it's bigger than it was a few hours ago._ '

"It's a Rorsach test. Means something different to whoever looks at it." He bounces his eyebrows up in invitation. "What do _you_ see?"

"Um." Curls giggles and glances at Pixie Cut. "A cute guy."

Eddie grins and winks, which makes her turn red as a beet in no time flat. They make small talk about mythology for a bit and they eventually give him their number, which he stashes in his pocket.

He's feeling pretty good after the conversation and paper flattery, though that's quickly slapped down when he's told by one of the staff his gym membership is about to dry up. No amount of schmoozing gets them to budge and he has to put down $15 to keep it. His remaining $15 would have to go to fare and something for the fridge, then. He's back to counting coins and it's hard to stay cheerful.

"Wasn't built in a day." He sighs, taking a long draft from the water fountain before stuffing his things into his bag and heading back outside. He's stunned at his unusual luck when he checks his e-mail and sees Diane wants to see him one more time today.

Huh. She usually called him over every other month for her fantasy-rubdown combo. He figures her husband's either on his way home early _or_ she was just that eager to have another orgasm before returning to the proverbial desert. Probably both. Today's been one unsteady step after another, but a few hours of droll roleplaying in his least favorite neighborhood had the promise of a few hundred bucks. He might even treat himself to an entire pizza afterwards.

' _Thin crust._ ' He stresses inwardly, pinching critically at his arms. ' _Not losing these, too. No way in hell._ '

A person could close their eyes, walk backwards and _still_ tell when they're entering Pacific Heights. He feels like he's being fined just breathing in the air. Eddie eyes the pristine picket fences and Victorian-style buildings. To think...he and Anne thought of moving here, once. Diane's pool boy is hard at work outside when he arrives, trimming the elaborate shrubbery by her windows. He's going to have to try and keep it down, then. The kid squints at him over his shoulder when Eddie jogs up the stairs and does his special knock. He gives him a pleasant smile, hands in his pockets and as casual as a lawyer. Make that twenty- _one_ funny looks.

"Oh, sorry about Jared. I'm going to have him mow the front yard once he's done trimming. Trying to keep the place spotless for tomorrow." It's the closest she comes to breaking character. "You hungry?"

Diane treats him to a full lunch spread. After his workout, commute _and_ walk it's hard not to wolf the quiche down whole. The woman was a fine cook, for all that she was a little lacking in the moral department, and they make the typical small talk in-between sips of summer shandy. Eddie compliments the dye job she got this morning (blonde instead of her usual brunette) and Diane all but preens, casually fishing for more compliments in-between bites. He sneaks in an aside about her legs while finishing his salad, then sneaks a cherry tomato from her bowl and earns a playful smack.

He's washing his dishes in the sink and asking about her new yoga classes when she brushes her fingers along his lower back. Their cue to get things started. Eddie plays distant for a minute, frowning thoughtfully as she keeps the conversation going, not making eye contact as he wipes off his plate...then tugs her back by her waist just as she's about to walk off. He apologizes for seeming cold, pressing Diane against the counter and kissing her chin slowly, not breaking away even as he reaches around her to wipe his hands off on a decorative rag.

She 'pretends' to escape, ducking out from under his arm and making a beeline for the master bedroom. Eddie tries to follow and...can't. He stays put, frozen in place like a Greek statue, and the rest of the hour comes to a screeching halt. ...What the hell? He tries to move again. No dice.

"...Bunny?"

Oh, _hell_. Oh, no. This wasn't good. Diane was unbelievably picky about her little charade and he can feel the fabricated seconds slipping by and fast. Why the hell can't he move? Is he having some sort of episode? He wants to grab his legs and shake them, for being yet another blemish on his day, but that'd break character faster than if he just stood on his head and announced he had a yam fetish. Not that he could even do _that_. Eddie tries again, much more desperately this time. Like he's waking up from a bout with sleep paralysis he finally, _mercifully_ moves forward.

Thank God.

"What...was that all about?" Diane asks as he leans in the doorway. Eddie's been stumbling through this second chance today. He can't lose it all yet.

"It's just...sometimes you _amaze_ me, Dee."

Diane's eyes go a little round and he takes advantage of her shock to take her face in both hands. His second chance is starting to fill him up. This was more than just a session. It was _practice_. For when he finds his way back into Anne's heart and makes up for all his mistakes. Eddie kisses her firmly, ignoring that _horrible_ lipstick, thinking of their house, their shared car. Their shared _everything_. It's easier with her hair almost the same shade as Anne's (if a little short). Maybe there was a little irony in practicing to be a better husband by helping a woman cheat on _hers_ , but he doesn't have time for it.

For the first time he's actually getting into it. Ha, he might actually orgasm and everything. Diane once told him she wished her husband was more spontaneous and it seems that opinion hasn't changed one bit when he spins her around, pushes her up against the wall by the bed and grinds against her ass.

" _Oh_ , oh, gentle now, bunny-" Diane gasps, delight making her breathless.

"I can be gentle." Eddie mutters into her ear. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Diane bite her lip, wriggling just so in his grip. He reaches down and starts to work up her skirt with his other hand. "But only if you want."

"Oh, I fucking _knew_ it."

Eddie pauses. He looks over his shoulder and blinks at the man in the doorway.

... _Fuck._

" _Roger._ " Diane whispers, voice going off-key with horror, yanking away from Eddie like he's suddenly made out of needles. "I thought...I thought you weren't coming back until tomorrow-"

"Oh, yeah, that was the _plan_." The man storms inside the room, throwing his suitcase to the ground. "Except Jared told me about some interesting noises he heard while cleaning a few months back. I didn't want to believe him, but he was fucking right. I can't believe it, but he was _right_. I never thought _you_ , of _all_ people-"

"It's...it's not like that, bunny, it's not like that at all-"

"Then what the fuck _is_ it, Dee? Because you're with some fucking guy behind my back and that looks pretty fucking clear to me!"

"No, _no_ , just _listen_ to me, you never listen to me-"

Eddie surreptitiously wipes off her lipstick with the back of his hand, fixing himself back into place with the other, eyes flicking back and forth at the domestic row blowing up in front of him. He's about to air out one of the hundred excuses rising to his lips when he hears a third voice speak.

" _Ugly, nasty, dishonest little things. Yyyou would even take an other's host_."

Eddie stiffens. He looks over his shoulder, expecting to see another surprise visitor at the doorway or crouched behind the goddamn side-table or even Jared...but there's nobody else. He looks back at the two, to see if they're just as startled as he is, but Diane is starting to cry and Roger's voice is raising to a seriously painful volume. ...He needs to go. Eddie starts to edge toward the door.

" _Don't you move!_ "

Eddie freezes. Roger is pointing a shaking finger at him, fixing him with a look he knows is about to be followed by a football tackle.

"Listen, man..." He starts, chuckling nervously and slowly raising his hands. "It's not what you think."

"Shut up. Get the _fuck_ away from my wife." Something flashes in the man's hand. A gun. Wait, a _gun?_

"Hey, hey, what are you doing-" Eddie takes a step back. "I'm telling you, I didn't _know_ -"

The man goes _flying_ across the room. Hits the bookcase like an extra in an action flick. A shot fires into the ceiling. Diane _screams_. Eddie blinks. What the hell just happened? They were just talking...now Roger's limp on the carpet, pistol across the room and books scattered everywhere. He looks at his hysterical wife, then around the room, then down. ...At the long, gnarled, black tentacles where his arms used to be.

" _...Oh._ "

"What did you _do?!_ " Diane screams, running over to his limp body and shaking his shoulders. "Roger, Roger, wake up-"

"I don't..." Eddie breathes, heart sluggish with horror as he watches his skin stretch and twist like melting plastic. "... _I don't know_."

Diane whirls on him...then gapes. Eddie looks to her, then to his hands and arms. Slowly shrinking and blending into pale human skin. The woman's eyes roll up to the ceiling as she collapses in a dead faint next to her husband. Blood starts to seep from Roger's hairline.

" _Yyyou're welcome, Eddie._ "

Eddie barely has the presence of mind to grab his coat on his way out the back door and across the freshly mowed backyard.

* ~ - ~ *

"Watch where you're going, _jackass!_ "

Eddie doesn't look back, even though he damn near got clipped by a speeding custom Cobra. Once he's out of the street he does, however, take a proper look. Up at the sky. Around him. At his hands.

Why is everything so goddamn _colorful?_ Eddie's head is jerking from side-to-side, fascinated and _horrified_ by this city in a way he's never been before. The San Francisco rainbow, somehow a light show from the world's craziest rave. He's _so_ sure he's not tripping, but everything looking like the inside of the world's most saturated soap bubble is telling him he's full of crap. His own skin is even turning into fucking Crayola shades. Veering from plum purple to highlighter pink. Every time he breathes a neon cloud bursts into the air. It's not even _cold!_

"Gotta get inside, gotta go. Trip out somewhere safe. Oh, god, I can't get arrested for this, I can't, I just got my life back, I _can't-_ "

His hands haven't changed again yet, but he keeps looking back at them, just in case they change their minds. The Gulf is a piss-stained representation of the worst San Francisco has to offer, but it might as well be heaven's gates for the staggering relief he feels when he arrives. Eddie's covered head-to-toe in sweat after his run, but he doesn't even bother to use some of it to slick back his hair. Not when he needs to get inside ASAP. Julie and Iris are squatting by their door on the second-floor and squinting down at him.

"Phew, Charles, you ran a ways, huh?"

"Son, are you high? I think he's high, Iris."

Oh, it's just wonderful. The nosy babble of the idle broke, but he doesn't have time for the music right now, not when his brain is trying to sabotage his every waking moment and everything is _fucking melting_. He thinks Darryl pats his shoulder, but his weathered brown skin is as orange as a construction cone and Eddie _yelps_ , nearly tripping running up the side stairs. Sofía is bouncing her baby on the third floor and looking at her phone, a vivid cone of pink in the growing dark. It starts crying when he runs by, like nails on a goddamn chalkboard, and Eddie clutches his head at the sudden tension lancing through his brain.

"Too much color, too much to this place, too much, too much-" He grits as he stumbles down the walkway. "- _noise!_ " Sofia clutches her baby to her chest, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "I-I'm sorry, Sofía, I was just-" Another screech. Another needle jabbed right in his temple. "Fuck! God, _fuck_ , would you shut that damn thing up?"

Sofía's jaw drops. Oh, why did he say that? _Why did he say that?_ Eddie jams his key into the handle, slamming the door shut behind him and gripping his head with both hands.

" _Should have eaten iiit._ "

"You're not real. _You're not real_." Now he's hearing voices. Now he's hearing goddamn voices with so much on his plate already. He's seen psychosis before. Seen people trip out on a bad dose, walking headlong into traffic and chewing their knuckles 'til they bled, shitting themselves in their sleep in one very regrettable memory. Even then...he had no idea it was this _scary_. He prays he didn't just attack someone. Please, please, _please_.

" _So yyyour poisoning just cured iiitself on iiits own?_ "

"Piss off, that was a hangover!" Eddie hits his temple, trying to jog it out of place, jog himself back _into_ place. Why was he even talking to it? He never thought his inner voice would sound so _snide_. "Just stop _talking_ , for one goddamn minute-"

" _Measly words for measly creatures_." A spiteful orange bursting in his mind and blooming behind his eyelids. Wait...the hell? A spiteful _orange?_ " _Yyyou were being devoured from the inside out_."

Intrusive thoughts...right? That's what some people had. People with anxiety. His just sounded much louder and much nastier than even his worst moments at the Laura House. Talking _to_ him, too, not just static from his wonky brain activity or recordings of every single person who has ever despised him. Hell, what did Miles tell him after he went to counseling? Intrusive thoughts just summed up a person's worst fears? Things they would never do in a million years. Okay. Great. That means he's a fucking _saint_.

" _Yyyour chemistry is somehow even worse_." It murmurs, a hoarse bassline in his brain. " _A tragedy from within. Erratic. Terrible. A malignant home._ "

"Christ in heaven, my bedside manner could use a little work." Eddie laughs, a high-pitched little giggle, and his stomach drops to the floor when it just keeps talking.

" _III'm very real. Why don't yyyou go ask one of yyyour many others about yyyour arms? Yyyou put a lot of stock into words. Yyyour shell in this noisy, colorful world_." A bloom of red in his mind. " _Yyyour teeth in the **dark**_."

Eddie looks at his forearms, as much as he doesn't want to, and _whimpers_. His arms aren't mutated anymore, but his veins are black and swollen and throbbing, like they're filled with _too much blood_. Second after long, horrible second ticks by. He...he needs to see a doctor. Anyone. _Now_. He turns around so fast he slips on the rug and hits the ground again. Eddie grimaces and clutches his mouth. _Hell_. ...He bit his lip.

Okay. Okay, that was actually a blessing in disguise. A doctor might not be a fantastic idea, not if he wants to stay out of an institution. He was going to give the neighbor a try. Not because his messed-up brain _told_ him to, but because he just needs a little reassurance. He runs out onto the balcony, now empty, and knocks frantically on the next door. Eddie spits out a quick glob of blood. Sofía's baby is squalling somewhere inside. He sends the poor thing a mental apology.

"Do you see this, too?" Eddie cries, holding up his hand right as she opens the door. " _Just tell me you see this!_ "

The woman's eyes, normally sleepier than a mini-mart at midnight, grow wide. This is the part where she asks him what he's been smoking or if he's trying to get her in trouble, her two usual responses to any and all conversation aimed her way...except she doesn't. No, she lets out an earsplitting _scream_ and slams the door in his face.

Eddie winces. Jesus! That was completely uncalled for. It didn't look _that_ bad. He wipes at his chin, then looks at his hand...then his arm...then his collar. A mass of black seeping over him in real time like a possessed wetsuit. ...Now _he_ screams. He turns and bolts back inside his room and slams the door. He backs away from it, shaking so hard he can't stand straight.

"Oh no, oh _no_ , oh-" He can't shake it off, it's like silk and _glue_ \- " _No no no no-_ "

" _III provide._ " The voice sounds amused now. " _Yyyou crave, so III provide._ "

He yelps and whirls around. Nothing. Nothing?! Eddie clutches his head. No, no...this isn't how he thought he'd go!

" _III'm **inside** yyyou, yyyou ridiculous thing_." His skin ripples queasily. " _Better?_ "

Eddie looks down. Something is stretching out from beneath his collar. It's coming out of the top of his shirt, spreading over him in a shadow he can _feel_. He does the only thing that makes sense: lose his fucking _mind_.

"Get _off_ me, get off, get off, get off-" He grips fistfuls of it -- like grabbing stretchy, slippery rubber -- and _yanks_. It stretches, then snaps back on with terrifying elasticity. Eddie tries again. Then again and again and _again_. He claws at his throat, tugs fruitlessly. If he looks close (and he does, because he can't believe any of this is actually happening) it looks less like wet glue and more like tiny interlocking hands. Thousands. _Millions_. Linking together and growing like mold all over him-

A sudden thought punctures the panic. He could grab his pistol. He didn't put a bullet in his brain, the _one_ bullet he had in the chamber, he could-

-no, no. There are people above and below. He can't. Eddie stumbles away from his dresser to the corner kitchen and yanks open the drawer for the lone steak knife, so hard the drawer goes flying and clatters onto the floor, sending the rest of the contents everywhere. He hasn't even gotten a proper grip on the handle before his crazed nerves have him dropping it. He grabs another object -- a fork -- and shoves it into the goop. It stretches obscenely, but doesn't break, no matter how _hard_ he drives it in. He flails a hand in the counter for something, _anything_.

" _Enough of this. Yyyou waste your meager strength._ "

It's growing harder to move. His muscles bunching up with another urge, a _foreign_ impulse, holding him back just like at Diane's house. A ballpoint pen doesn't work, a bottle cap doesn't work, nothing _works!_ Eddie's hand brushes against something small and smooth in the mess. A lighter. He snatches it, clicks it on with a trembling thumb, and-

" _Stop!_ " The voice in his head does from bone-deep to _scraping_ and makes his skull ring. " _What is wrong with yyyou? Do yyyou **want** to burn alive?_ "

" _ **Get the hell off!**_ "

A gnarled hand extends from his chest. Eddie gapes in wordless horror as it reaches out through the cramped kitchen in a long, twisted arm to try and grab his wrist. He screams, not even bothering to mitigate his volume, and thrusts the lighter at it. The entire thing on his body _shudders_ and he's hit with a sudden, painful punch of nausea. He doubles over, groping wildly with his other hand to keep himself from falling, hitting his head and _accidentally_ committing suicide. The lighter bounces across the tile.

" _Savage l i t t l e t h i n x x x x x x z z z x x x_ "

The lighter worked. The lighter _worked_ and it's suddenly knocked three feet away and the long black arm growing out of his chest like a curse is reaching out to grab it. Eddie digs his heels into the ground and grips it with both hands, _tugs_ it back, pulling himself off balance and hitting the floor in a sprawl. He lashes out a hand and snatches it with the swiftness only an athlete had and flicks it on again. The goo drips off him, falling off him as loose as water to bunch up on the floor and slide away into the far shadow in the corner.

" _x x x x x x x x x x x x x x z z z I I I_." The voice is still in his head, but it's distant, distorted, not words so much as noise, and Eddie scrambles back as far away as possible, not stopping until his hands brush the carpet. " _I I I . . ."_

The kitchen is a mess. The psychadelic colors are gone. Eddie stares over the frantic rise and fall of his chest. He thinks it stares back. The lighter is still in his hand, tiny flame trembling so hard it might go out from the shaking alone.

" _. . . l i a r ._ "

A knock on the door has him jumping right back to his feet. Now? _Really?_ He can't speak right -- his bottom lip feels like a ball of meat -- and he wants nothing more than to rinse his mouth with cold water before wrestling his tongue into a mundane conversation. Eddie risks a quick look at the door, then back at the far corner of the tiny kitchen. _Hell._ It's gone. Another knock, much harder this time. Backing away on legs made of jelly he fumbles opens his door, still panting and holding the lit lighter in one hand.

"...Evening, Charles." Deborah peers at him with that look she always has, like she was some long-lost queen that hit an unexpected detour on the way to the throneroom. "...You better be careful with that. I don't want a fire."

"Evening, evening, sorry." Eddie pats back his hair and tries not to look like he just nearly pissed himself. That is, of course, provided he didn't _actually_ piss himself. "I know I sound funny, I bit my lip."

"Yes...I can tell." She peers over his shoulder. "Are you alone?"

"Yeah. Yeah, Debbie, it's just me, myself and I."

"Uh-huh. Well, we got a complaint of a..." She sighs, looks at the lighter still held in his hand, then back to his face. "A monster?"

"A...monster?" Eddie makes sure to sound more dubious than a lawyer. He doesn't have to try very hard. She clearly doesn't want to be here right now and if anyone was going to think he's crazy he'd _rather_ it not be his stingy motel manager. Shit, he's not even sure if he wants to let her in and see for herself. She was strict on cleanliness, despite the building practically falling apart at the seams, and he hasn't spruced up in days. ...Yeah, no. He was going to call animal control and skip the part where he was losing his mind.

"There are a lot of addicts here. You already know. Say they see all kinds of stuff. Said it was _you_ , actually." Deborah casts another pointed look at his hand and he reluctantly flicks the lighter off. "...So I have no choice but to look into it despite it probably being a waste of my time. Also some complaints of noise...?"

"Uh, I was bleeding a lot." He tries to smile, and that _hurts_ , so he stops halfway in what he _hopes_ is a friendly grimace. "Bit it pretty hard. Made a mess, on my shirt here, see..."

"Tenant below said they heard yelling."

"Yeah...bit it _pretty hard_."

"Enough to disturb half the _motel?_ "

"Hydrogen peroxide. Burns like hell." Deborah watches him, as sour and suspicious as the on-site manager of a three-star drive-in can be. Eddie thinks it's time to pull out the stops. She wasn't the type that liked flattery -- in fact, that was a guaranteed way to get her even _more_ cranky -- and bribery wouldn't work when he was broke. It's a shame, because he was usually good at both. "I can show you, if you like-" He starts, tugging at his lip. Deborah's face scrunches up tighter than a sun-dried raisin. Ace in the hole.

"No, no, that's fine, I don't need to see it." He thinks that's the end of it, with the way she gathers up her raggedy old cardigan around her shoulders, but she leans in and lowers her voice. "I know what you _do_. Okay? You're not clever."

"Clever?" Eddie repeats, all innocence, and her thin lips curl into a sneer.

"I get a _lot_ of types here, Charles. Just because you don't wear high heels doesn't mean you're slick. If you don't keep _this_ -" She makes an extremely obscene gesture with her hand where only he can see. "-off the premises? You're _out_."

"Yeah, yeah." Any other day he'd be telling her kicking out paying tenants was _illegal_ and could get her in serious trouble, that he cut his teeth on shady business practices under the guise of moral superiority before he even got his license, but he's too busy throwing one ear behind him. Trying to catch a hint of where the god _damned_ thing could have disappeared to in less than a second. "Okay, yeah, sure. Whatever you say."

"Enough bad press as it is..." She mutters as she turns on one heel and jogs down the stairs and across the wet parking lot. Eddie watches her go, until she's just far enough out of sight...then tip-toes back inside his room and very, _very_ quietly shuts the door behind him.

A June shower starts to patter outside, flickering spotty shadows all over his dirty floor. He can still hear Sofía's baby squalling like a neglected landline phone down the walkway. Eddie scrounges around for anything out of place. His bed is still half-made. Bottles and cans still in their towers. His eyes hone in on a dark spot on the floor...but it's just a crusty spot of blood on the carpet from his fall earlier. He takes a shaky step forward, then another, one hand still behind him to yank the door back open at a moment's notice.

"God, I don't know _what_ you're trying to tell me with this..." He whispers, even watching his _breath_ to make sure it doesn't turn into pink clouds or something. "...but I'd really, really apprecate it if you'd wrap it up-"

A _rustle_. Eddie whirls around to face the bathroom. Nothing. He swallows, so loudly he can hear it, and pats a nervous hand over his chest. It looks fine. _Feels_ fine. Still feels like he's being watched. He's felt like that all day long and it's because something was inside him. Because he was _possessed_. The realization makes his knees weak.

"Oh, God, I _know_ I haven't been to church lately. I know I helped Diane cheat on her husband, I know that's wrong, I'm sorry." He peers behind the television, then swivels around to look at the dirty pile of clothes. "I'm a filthy liar, I'm a cheat-"

A shadow twitches by the bed and cuts his confession short. Eddie bites back a scream.

" _Christ on a cracker-_ " He flings the lighter in front of him and starts to flail behind him to open the door again. To hell with it. He's not facing this thing alone again! Maybe Deborah was still nearby. He was no Flash, but he could be incredibly loud when he needed to be, and that woman missed _nothing_. He could scream for help, get someone to bring a goddamn flamethrower or stick of dynamite or something-

" _Such gratitude for sparing yyyou the long dark_." A familiar, snide, deep voice says from all around the room. " _III should have let yyyou choke on yyyour own saliva_."

Eddie's hand _finally_ finds the doorknob, grips it tight enough to bruise...and he pauses.

"Sparing me the...long dark?" That's...that's _right_. Someone was at the Laura House. Saying this exact same weird shit. "...The hell are you? Who the _hell_ are you?" His voice grows tight with anger. " _Huh?_ You a demon? Trying to finish me off? I still got this lighter, yeah? I can still _stick_ you with it."

" _Yyyou agreed_." The voice sinks into a husky hiss. More damning than a thousand Catholic teachers. " _Oh, yyyou filthy liar."_

"I didn't...I didn't agree to _anything_ , what the hell are you talking about..."

Eddie's breath comes out short and tense as he fills in the remaining gaps. Now that his heart rate has slowed down ( _way_ too much, he feels like he's coming down with heatstroke) and he sees it in the shifting light by the window it looks...thinner. Flatter. Back in the Laura House he'd compared it to melting candlewax. It's a little less scary when he uses a simile like that. Just a little. That still doesn't explain anything. He'd gone there to do the world a favor and blow his head off, yet somehow he got back to his motel without a ride, barely any money and no phone while _completely_ shitfaced.

His mood swings (worse than usual, anyway)...the sudden, unexplainable headaches. The voice, the crazy colors, accidentally assaulting his client's fucking _husband_ right in front of her. This was... _just_ strange enough a detail to fill in all the gaps and make sense of it all. He's close enough to the bathroom to catch a sliver of his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Eddie looks at the back of his neck. ...The black mark is gone.

"... _Oh_."

He remembers walking. A lot of walking. Someone talking to him, telling him all sorts of things, showing him pictures that barely stick in his mind. It was terrifying...but he wasn't hurt. It freaked him out, insulted him, even, but...saved his life. He doesn't know how the hell he knows this for sure, not when a lot of his memories feel like a half-remembered high, but...it kept him warm. It took him home.

It saved him.

"You said..." Eddie starts, stepping around his words carefully. "...you said you would make the pain go away."

Another rustle.

" _III did._ "

Eddie The Shrieking, Gibbering Wreck was out. Eddie The Reporter is in. He sits on the edge of the bed, just close enough to the door to flee if he still needs to, and leans his elbows on his knees. It doesn't have eyes or a face or anything for him to read, so he's going to have to do what he learned in Communications class and project what he feels onto the situation and hope it sticks. Easier said than done. He hashes out a quick prayer in the back of his mind, provided the Lord didn't send this thing down to mess with him in the first place, and takes in a deep breath.

"...Okay. Okay, this is...okay. Why don't we just start from the top so we're on the same page." He flicks the lighter off -- though he keeps it in the crook of his thumb just in case -- and knits his fingers together. "What's your name?"

" _Yyyou want a name_."

"Yeah. A name, a nickname, a color, whatever you got."

" _III don't have a name_." He doesn't know how, but he can feel it sneer. Eddie nods, a little too much, and doesn't even bother keeping his newspeak in-tact...not that he really could with his beat-up lip.

"All right, okay. Cool. That's fine. Where are you from, then?"

" _Why._ "

"Because I don't know you, or...or even what you _are?_ "

It shifts up along the wall. Tendrils sticking to the plaster in clingy, goopy fingers. It makes him think of how an octopus would move, all slow and deliberate. Eddie swallows and scoots back as best he can, though the chair has already worn a groove into the carpet. He really hopes it doesn't like blood.

" _From beyond the stars. Beyond this tiny, erratic, miserable little place_."

It's not standing so much as... _leaning_ upwards, at an angle that shouldn't be possible with how gravity works. What looks like a thin, bald head and the beginning of shoulders form out of the twitching black goop. Eddie squints. When the windowlight flickers the faintest shimmer travels over it. Like tiny sand crystals...or stars.

"A galaxy far, far away, huh?" It's a meager joke, but for some reason...it makes everything click. "...Wait. That was you." Eddie's voice grows faint from the realization. "The meteorite. The...the thing that hit the hotel, just last night, that was...that was _you_."

" _Are all of yyyou so clever?_ "

"Are all of you this _rude?_ " Eddie laughs, suddenly, at how _much_ this thing sounds like his motel manager. He can't believe he was actually afraid of it. "You messed up that place good, by the way. Why are you here, then? Shouldn't you be in New York or something?"

" _Because there is nowhere else_."

Last he checked the planet's a pretty big place, so there must be something real important he's missing. There's a lot to take in already with that one statement alone, much less this entire shitshow he's only partially convinced isn't a hallucination now. God, he should've grabbed his notepad. He still doesn't want to turn his back on it, though. It may be thin and dripping all over the carpet, but it was scarily fast. Fast and _sticky_.

"Are there...more of you?" A horrible thought strikes him dumb. "Wait...is this an _invasion?_ "

Eddie knows he's fucked up royally all over again when it stops rippling and goes totally still.

" _...III am not a parasite._ "

He was wrong. It does have a face...or at least rows of _teeth_ , stretching out of the blank black head to form a mouth. A mouth opening up to _bite him_.

" ** _III am not a parasite!_** "

It pulls itself up to loom against the ceiling. Much, much, _much_ taller than it was before. Oh, shit. Oh, _hell_. Eddie stumbles back and falls straight off the bed.

"Fuck, okay! Okay, okay!" He starts, holding up a hand, and that only seems to make it angrier. "Wasn't calling you a parasite or anything-"

" _Call mmme a parasite and III will pull the rest of the blood from yyyour mouth!_ " It lashes out a not-arm, flinging one of his spare bottles and sending it right into the window with a _shatter_ that sends glass everywhere. " _Do yyyou honestly believe yyyou have any leverage over mmme? That yyyour grasping fingers and spongey flesh could hold mmme at bay if III decided to end yyyour leaking existence here and now? Yyyou infest this planet in a plague, a conquest that will suck yyyour world into a husk, and yyyou dare-!_ "

Eddie curls into a tight ball, clutches his head with one hand and holding out the lighter with the other, desperate to look as submissive as possible so it doesn't eat him or wrap around him like _glue_ again. It doesn't say another word. After what feels like an hour he risks a peek between his arms. It's not even an inch away. The tiny flame bounces off it in little orange flashes.

" _Everything...for everything._." It slides back and Eddie finally lets out a breath so faint he slumps onto the carpet. " _We imbue creatures with potential and create a being far greater than the sum of iiits parts. A noble pursuit as old as the universe_." A pause. " _Even fleshy, moody, sickly little creatures like yyyou_."

"O-Okay." Eddie manages a weak smile. "...Cool."

" _There's the other. III can sense ttthem...through these colors, these shapes and voices, but it's too much, the prism too faint, III can't call. III don't know if ttthey found a host. If ttthey are even still..._ " It shrinks back, ripples like a puddle and deflates until it's all flat. Eddie thinks it might be sick. He has no idea _why_ he thinks that, when it just looks like a smear now, but he does. " _...III will share mmmy gifts with yyyou...if yyyou help me find ttthem and mmmy shell_."

His cross-referencing skills ping immediately. Good ol' Eddie Brock's still got it.

"Hold on. Just...hold on and don't freak out on me. You said you choose people...uh, creatures...with potential, but you also told me I'm sick as a dog." He pauses. "...and ridiculous."

" _Yyyou are._."

"But...I have potential?"

" _All living beings do._ "

Eddie licks at his dry lips and leans up into a sitting position.

"You got me back home. You, uh, also made my hangover go away. Then there was that little row at Diane's." It smiles. He's pretty sure that's what it does. What other way is he supposed to look at that mouth stretching from side-to-side like that? "What else...can you do?"

" _A symbiosis_."

"...A partnership?"

" _Superior. Yyyour partnerships are an incarnate chaos, limited by yyyour biology and messy ambitions, crawling, weak, anarchic. III can do far more. III can mold yyyour flesh. III can make yyyou blend into yyyour environment. III can make yyyou more powerful than any blood and sweat animal on this hunk of rock. III can make yyyou big, Eddie. Together we can be so, so, so much. Effervescent. Malleable. Unstoppable._ "

Well, if _that_ didn't sound like the fine print on a student loan.

"If it's a partnership...a, um, symbiosis...then that means I give you something in return."

" _Yyyour body sustains mmme. Yyyour chemicals will do_."

"You have to be in me? I can't just...feed you? I got food, not a lot, but-" Another sneer he can feel. About as obvious a 'no' as he'd ever get. "Uh...huh. If I say I _don't_ want to sell my body and soul for three magical wishes?" The blob shivers again, somehow even flatter than before, and he can barely hear it speak this time.

" _...then the long dark starts here_." He leans forward. A whisper he feels less in his mind and more in the center of his chest. " _...and goes on forever._ "

Eddie stares at the little black puddle. Now that he's in a slightly better state of mind he can focus on other details. That it's baritone is much softer now. That it looks less like goop and more like an oil spill. ...That it's dying.

...He needs to contact local animal control about this. Someone who might know what the hell is going on here. Offer up a quick lie, ask to borrow someone's phone and have this entire ordeal finished in fifteen minutes flat. He could even wait another few hours and reach through his old contacts, maybe bribe some journalists he knew back in the day to contact nearby science outlets and become the talk of the town for years. Eddie Brock would become the reporter who discovered the mysterious alien. The local who survived a monster encounter. The guy who really wasn't all _that_ bad, despite what he did and who he became.

Eddie looks over his shoulder at the pistol on the drawer as he rolls the much more lucid thoughts through his fuzzy post-adrenaline brain. He could do that. After all, he was...so _many_ things. A journalist...washed-up and barely paying off his bills. A sex worker...on the low. An alcoholic...still. A failure. A liar. A bum. A bad son. A bad Catholic. But was he this _selfish?_ He didn't believe in much these days, but quid pro quo was as powerful a doctrine as any...and he's suddenly _ashamed_. The weather picks up outside, a steady drum on the windowpane that fills the silence with a somber melody. He feels something similar starting to beat behind his eyes.

"...Why did you keep me from killing myself?"

His vision's blurry, but not so much he can't see the alien's small body undulate like a beating heart.

" _...Because we need to survive._ "

Eddie idly picks at a grass stain on his jeans. That's exactly it. Surviving. He was tired of surviving. Tired for probably longer than he'd be willing to admit and...he couldn't take another slogging, demoralizing, miserable _day_ of it. Much less the depressing scope of middle-age and his golden years. The sheer unknown facing him, the light in the sky, the heartbeat in his chest, it's all a lot of noise he's trying to figure out right now. All he knows for sure is he had the conviction to die last night...and it's gone now.

_It's a cold midnight adventure. At least, it should be, but they're drunk and warm and not alone, and he's so happy he could wrap the 415's chilly rainbow buildings around their shoulders in a blanket that spans the planet's rotation. The pain is gone. They're whole again. Eddie calls out a song, some discordant notes from Just One Forgave-Me-Not, and even though he's forgotten half the lyrics he feels like a rockstar. Street after street they cross, hill after hill they crest, until a familiar clutter of neon lights beckons them near._

_Their abode, their nest. A lonely home of dirty laundry and beer cans. Their new friend doesn't need it, but it's all Eddie has, and he needs his bed. They're startled at the sight of Darryl, lounging on the first floor with a magazine, defensive at the sight of two harmless older women on the second floor, and he soothes him out loud, even though this new best friend is in his head where nobody can see. His motel mates crow at him, ask him if he's drunk, and their laughter blur into the rest of the rainbow. He thinks they'd understand. He thinks they'd understand. He thinks ttthey'd understand._

"I can't...do this, forever. Whatever this...is. But for now...you can..." He grips his jeans. "...help me out?"

" _Help mmme find the other_." It whispers back, and about as breathless. " _Then III will be out like a light_."

"Can't..." Eddie chuckles nervously. He's really doing this. He's honest-to-God doing the craziest thing he's ever done in his crazy goddamn life. "...sign a contract without a name."

" _Keep yyyour names, Eddie_." It moves toward him again. His heart drums up again -- trying to tell him to pick those legs up and move -- but he stays where he is, teeth ground tight with an athlete's determination. " _Yyyou reek with promise_."

"It's not..." He swallows. "It's not gonna...gonna hurt, is it?"

A warm, glowing amber in his mind, intense...and soft.

" _III said III would make the pain go away...didn't III?_ "

Eddie looks at the pistol on his drawer one more time. A second chance in silver...or a second chance in black.

The alien starts reaching out with its little tentacle fingers, easing through the space in one long, thin stretch like it's being pulled on a string. It touches his face, brushes along his lower lip. It starts throbbing horribly, and that _hurts_ , and Eddie winces and angles his head away, leaning backwards as politely as he can so he doesn't piss it off again. When he reaches up to touch his mouth, say something frank about chomping on the thing not five minutes ago...it's not bleeding anymore.

Like a sheet snapped out to dry it lifts up, up to the ceiling to spread out and drown out the weak light from the window. Descending over him in a black mass and enveloping him from head-to-toe. Eddie's eyes flick up, then all around him, watching as he's suspended in the air, cradled in the alien's inky hammock, and the world goes dark...then _colorful_.

_Looks like he found his demon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie wakes up in his room at The Gulf, a motel he's taking up temporary residence in, and is stunned to find out he's still alive after his suicide attempt. Not only is he alive, he feels fresh and full of energy in a way he hasn't for years. His memory's fuzzy, though, and he initially believes everything that's transpired over the past twenty-four hours to be a dream...only to watch the news and find out he really _did_ witness a space phenomenon first-hand. A strange black mark on his upper back and shoulderblade is perhaps the strangest detail of all.
> 
> With his phone lost he sends out a few e-mails to Anne and Mary before looking up social media and checking the accounts of various people he knows. Nicolas, a friend from college, plans on visiting San Francisco soon. Eddie is convinced God is giving him a second chance to start over fresh. He attempts to go through another day as he pieces together this personal mystery, dropping by the Golden Community Center first to destroy his suicide note and will in his locker. Flash is upset with him for not showing up early to help with a presentation and Eddie snaps at him, uncharacteristically harsh. He's startled by his sudden mood swing...and things only get stranger when Kaeki shows him a drawing that makes him flash back to a memory that never happened.
> 
> Miles is happy to see him, even more so at an offer to hang out at the arcade later in the week, but he keeps giving Eddie a strange look...
> 
> Eddie visits the gym, only to find out his membership is about to expire. With his bank account shut down and fridge empty, his lack of funds are hitting him hard...which make it all the better when a regular client asks him to drop by for one more session before her husband Roger comes home. That is, until Roger turns up unexpectedly early, having suspected his wife has been cheating on him for a while. The symbiote defends Eddie when he's attacked, knocking Roger out and forcing him to flee the scene.
> 
> Eddie finally figures out the source of the black mark, why he's been acting so strangely and what, exactly, happened to him at the Laura House...
> 
> \--
> 
> _Ohh...amber is the color of your energy..._
> 
>  
> 
> A tough chapter to write...and it's finally _out_. Phew. Sometimes you just gotta post it. You could perfect your chapter for years and still find something to improve. Write, edit and move on, I say!


	4. Five Signs You're A Superhero And Three Signs You're Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for anti-black microaggressions, panic attacks and mentions of mental breakdowns.
> 
> Chapter Song -- "Anxious" by Tangina Stone

 

_Tears are rolling down Mom’s face. Aaron’s, too. The last time Miles saw him cry was…never._

_He watches them try to hold back the flow and fail miserably from where he stands by the new Corolla, the sun shining brightly over all the train passengers shuffling back and forth across his vision. All Miles would have to do is push his elbows off the car door and go join them. He’s good at crying. Always has been, really, but for once he’s the odd duck out. A liminal space in a thin sweater and old jeans._

_Neither here nor there on a special day that doesn’t feel very special at all._

A sharp _bzzt_ jerks him out of his stupor. A text from Ganke. He’s crowing about the scans he sent him last night. He knew he’d like them. Miles starts to type in a response, right before he realizes he shouldn’t have moved at all.

“House broken in yet?”

“…Yeah.”

“Neighborhood givin’ you any trouble?”

“Nope.”

“Ha, am I gonna get more than one-word answers outta you today?”

“I don’t know.”

Miles doesn’t need his spidey-sense to know his uncle is giving him the stinkeye.

”…Haven’t seen you in a few years.” Aaron sighs once the light turns green. “Least you could do is text when we get home.”

”…Sorry.”

Miles sends one last text, then pushes his phone into his pocket and hunches into his seat, staring out the window at the colorful blur of Bernal Heights and twisting the bottom of his t-shirt. He didn’t lie to his mother. He said he’d try to do this, even though he’s trying a _whole_ lot harder not to roll down the window and dive headfirst out of a moving vehicle. Not like that’d fix anything, of course, but…the fantasy’s nice. He was going to have to stock up on daydreaming, anyway, until the next few weeks were up. For the first time in a long time Miles wishes he had real life friends he could bunk with.

Fucking anxiety.

Aaron offered to pick him up today in Mom’s car after she got roped into a surprise meeting. What was _supposed_ to be a simple drive from point A to point B transformed into an errand run at _three_ different places. There are cold items in the back, but even the threat of spoiled eggs hasn’t stopped his uncle from making a few more turns than really needed to get them back home. He wasn’t about to blame it on him being fresh(ish) out of jail and having never been to Bernal, either. Not when Mom installed a GPS.

”Poor motherfucker…” Aaron mutters under his breath as they slide to a stop, staring at a group of homeless people clustered on the side of the street and trying to flag down tourists. One of them’s got a snaggletooth grin and a baseball cap covered in pins, handing out something to everyone that moves. It’s just their luck they’re stuck at a red light. Miles does his best to melt into the car seat when the guy immediately approaches the car and knocks on the window. ”Roll that down, Miles.” He adds, turning down the stereo volume. Miles sighs inwardly and slides down the window at a half-crack, letting in what smells like a pound of car exhaust and cigarette smoke.

”Hey, boy, that’s a great haircut you got. You need a touch-up, you just come by. I’ll keep you looking golden. Dares N’ Deets, right here. We treat you right.” He says, all at once, pushing a business card through the window gap. Miles glances at Aaron – who cocks an eyebrow at him – and tentatively reaches up to take it. “You look like you could use a trim, too, huh?”

”Nah, I’m growin’ it out.” Aaron replies, grin bright against his beard, then reaches out past Miles to give the guy a fistbump. “You keep doing you, man. Maybe we’ll swing on by.”

”I sure would appreciate it. Why don’t I give you an extra one, then?” The man gives Miles three more and jogs off before the light changes. “Thanks for spreading the love!”

Miles looks at the card. It’s got colorful stripes on the back and a logo on the front. Dares N’ Deets. A barber shop. Aaron reaches over and changes the song, blaring some neo-jazz single he’s never heard of. It’s not a bad song, really. Miles feels the anxious slurry of a crap day and an extra social encounter sink to the back of his mind, the panic ebbing with it.

”Shitty drivers and shitty traffic, but at least the people are all right, huh?” Aaron says, sticking the businesscards in his coat pocket.

Miles sticks his card into his phone pocket and looks back out the window. What does he even say to that? Aaron wasn’t a best friend like Mom, a person for him to lean on and be himself. He wasn’t a life coach like Mr. Brock, cheering him on every step of the way no matter what. He wasn’t even a big brother…like Peter. He crushes his eyes shut, picking one of the more commonly used items in his mental health inventory and hyperfocusing on the bass bumping in the seat. Even if he _was_ going to start crying today he wasn’t going to do it in front of Aaron.

”We could talk about that thing that hit the hotel, if you want a better conversation.” Aaron offers, _again_ , when they hit another light, and the music’s not so loud he still can’t hear the worst suggestion in the world.

Hell _no_. That was even worse. Miles’ life was complicated enough after he got bit by that spider. He didn’t need the sky literally falling down on his head, too. Everyone was excited about it – it was all anyone ever talked about at school, teachers included -- but to him it was just another grain of sand on the beach that was his weird, isolated, dangerous life.

”It was just a satellite.” Miles mumbles. Aaron scoffs.

”Huh. Think you’re the only kid I’ve seen who don’t wanna talk about that.”

”Guess you don’t know me very well, then.”

Miles winces. Wait. That didn’t technically make sense. That actually meant Aaron _was_ right about him wanting to know about the weird blue light, which he doesn’t. Oh, damn it. Now he has to double back. He chews on his inner cheek and tries to think of a response that won’t get him in hot water later.

“I might get a job at Pretty Slope.” Aaron says, suddenly. Miles blinks.

”…What?”

“Yeah. They got a full-time and a part-time position open. Even talked with the manager in-person, but, you know.” He sticks a hand out the window and impatiently waves a bystander across the street, then rounds a corner. “My resume has a few holes in it.”

Miles has been there before. It was a little hole-in-the-wall record store near Inner Mission, totally retro and filled all the way up to the ceiling with old records, cassettes and CDs. He’d…actually be perfect for it. Aaron used to be a jazz artist, a really good one, and he could play probably a dozen instruments. Maybe he still was. There was a _lot_ Miles didn’t know about in-between his time at the Center and being whisked off to New York City. This new really should cheer him up. After all, maybe if he actually got a job, one he _liked_ , no less, he wouldn’t have to stick around. Miles pulls a generic nice answer out of his inventory, one that makes Aaron smile, and he rewards himself by drifting off into his head again when the playlist shifts to funk-pop.

The second they pull up in the driveway Miles all but _flees_ , using the excuse that he has to pee.

He keeps up the illusion by lingering in the bathroom – even washing his hands – and pretends to look relieved when he walks back out. He helps put away the bi-weekly groceries and vacuums the living room before running up to his loft and doing what any Gen Zer would do in his position: self-medicating by ranting on Discord about it.

” _you got an hour or two for a match? just need to let out some of this stress_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 5:56 PM

” _I totally would, but I have a dance recital in a bit. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you later. You can share right now, though, if you want!_ ”, MulletHell, 5:57 PM

Similar answers from the others. Ganke’s got an overdue assignment to finish (and Miles wonders if his seventy-page scan expedition had something to do with that). Silk has an upcoming meeting with her parents about something that happened in school. He sighs and slumps back against his pillows. At least they’re here. He types up a pretty impressive series of text walls griping about the new living situation, which he at least tries to break up with a few emojis (with all the major problems edited out until he could suss out his reactions better), but he doesn’t go overboard. He’s not trying to create a short film or anything.

Miles hugs his knees and stares at the blinking typing animations beneath the message bar, anxiety stretching with each new second.

“ _Ugh. That sounds stressful. Which uncle?_ ”, MulletHell, 6:02 PM

“ _lol, I only have one uncle. that I know about anyway_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 6:03 PM

“ _wait, what am i missing OoO something about a miles uncle??_ ”, SilkySmoothPotatoes, 6:08 PM

“ _yeah his uncle was really_ ”

“ _wait can I talk about this or_ ”

“ _sorry_ ”, Got_The_Gank, 6:10 PM

Miles bites his lip…and starts to type.

” _its not a big deal. hes just kind of a dick_.” His hands hover over the keys as words bubble up through his chest to the tips of his fingers, hot and risky. “ _long story short he got sent to jail after stealing something, dont even know what the hell it was, probably something expensive, cause he was there for a whole two years. mom was really upset. theyve always been close and it was around the time dad left, too. he lived in sacramento for a while and I guess hes having a hard time affording a place, cause now hes gonna be staying with us til he gets a better job and im kind of pissed lmao. plenty of bridges he could go stay under instead_.”, PenultimateLoser, 6:15 PM

” _geez that’s savage lmao_ ”, Got_The_Gank, 6:17 PM

” _Wow. That’s a lot. What else makes him a dick? Also I’ll BRB got to lace my shoes_ ”, MulletHell, 6:18 PM

” _just dont tell anyone ok_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 6:18 PM

It’s not like they _could_ – they all lived in different states – but the illusion of confidentiality still felt good.

” _he had me steal things when I was little. was trying to teach me some ‘life skills’ or some shit. first it was shoplifting at stores, just sneaking little things into my pocket. had me pull of tags or scrub off barcodes. sometimes he used me as a distraction for the um, teller or employees. he taught me how to walk quiet at night, how to pick locks, etc. oh one time he took me to meet all his like, thief friends? they were nice to me but they were like, ACTUAL criminals. I think one of them was a murderer. really pissed mom off when she found out. she screamed at him_.”, PenultimateLoser, 6:21 PM

” _that’s fucked up, dude_ ”, Got_The_Gank, 6:22 PM

” _woah so you’re like the actual MVP thug of the chatroom now, huh? OoO_ ”, SilkySmoothPotatoes, 6:25 PM

Miles frowns. That’s _exactly_ what his mom was afraid of. Having her son – her scrawny kid afraid of loud noises and always lost in his own head -- be seen as nothing more than a criminal. It scared her half to death most days, especially with him hitting puberty, and there were few things that hurt more than seeing the fear in her eyes every time he grabbed a waffle and ran out the door to the bus stop. God, he hates it when this happens. A friend or classmate saying something completely stupid and leaving him to figure out if he wants to let it roll off his back or tell them not to say it again, but say it nice enough they don’t think he’s…well. Acting like a _thug_.

It sits in his chest and burns on the kindling of all the other things he wanted to say today and didn’t. He looks back at the screen when he sees Gwen typing a response.

” _I know you’re just joking around, but that’s really not funny, Cindy. He’s lucky he didn’t get thrown in jail before he even graduated junior high._ ”, MulletHell, 6:25 PM

” _im sorry :(. ur right_ “, SilkySmoothPotatoes, 6:26 PM

Miles manages a shaky smile. If anyone else would know how he’s feeling, it’s Gwendolyn. She’s had more than enough crappy things flung her way in ballet, what with being the only biracial kid in every dance class she was in. He wants to thank her, but it’s hard to think up a response that doesn’t sound awkward.

” _yeah its just…kinda stress city over here. i dont even know how im gonna manage the next few months. got AP exams and community work and now this_ ” In spite of it all Miles snorts helplessly and types up a fast addition. ” _cant believe a surprise meteor landing smack dab in my home city is the **least** of my problems right now_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 6:30 PM

” _wish you couldve stayed in new york a little longer. then we couldve hang out and had some game nights :( ”,_ SilkySmoothPotatoes, 6:33 PM

Miles goes numb. He knows Cindy’s not trying to be the worst thing about his day right now, but she’s hitting every wrong button and he wants nothing more than to just delete the chat and throw his laptop out the window to shatter into a million pieces. He hates how there’s always a problem, everywhere he goes, even though all he’s _ever_ tried to do was be a good kid and stay out of trouble. He hates his life. He hates his powers, he hates his uncle, he hates her, he hates himself, he hates-

” _gonna log off for a bit. ill catch you all tomorrow_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 7:05 PM

They all send him something to cheer him up over the next five minutes. Cindy sends him a cat video (a kitten gearing up to pounce on a sleeping fat cat and accidentally falling off the table instead). Gwendolyn sends him an article on mental wellness (specifically chronic anxiety disorder and how it affects day-to-day productivity, the Discord chat’s very own personal therapist). Ganke sends him porn. …Furry porn. He finds out exactly what _kind_ when he clicks a seemingly harmless link to a Twitter thread and gets the loudest, most obnoxious groaning he’s ever heard in his _life_. Miles hastily exits out and plugs his headphones in.

“ _goddammit ganke_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 7:24 PM

“ _lmao_ ”, Got_The_Gank, 7:24 PM

Like his bedside alarm his spidey-sense goes off. Miles whips his head up one second before his bedroom door opens. Then again, it could just be his anxiety at having his personal space invaded. Mom was usually good about knocking, but Aaron hadn’t been around enough to pick up on the little family changes over the years. He probably wouldn’t _ever_ , if he goes and mugs someone on his way to his next job interview or something. Miles moodily tilts his screen down, just enough for the man to see his face. His uncle is still wearing his jean jacket and Timberlands. It’s still weird to see, even hours later, right with his thicker beard and messier hair.

”Yo.”

“…Yo.”

His uncle tilts his head, gaze moving across his bedroom loft in a slow, lazy sweep. He shuts the door softly behind him, crossing one ankle over the other and leaning back against the side wall.

“So...” Aaron starts, doing that thing adults do where they smack their lips in some attempt to sound casual before a completely _uncasual_ question. “Whatcha up to?”

“…Nothing.”

“Don’t sound like nothin’.” Miles shifts uncomfortably, looking down while still keeping him in the corner of his eye. He was going to have an _extra_ word with Ganke about this. “It’s cool. I get it. You’re hittin’ puberty, but you should probably-“

“I-It’s not like that.” Miles grits out. “Just a joke a friend sent me.”

“Oh, all right. Cool.” Aaron coughs behind his fist, but he’s obviously snickering. “If you ever need the good stuff, though, just ask me. I’ll make sure you don’t get a virus, at least.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Miles agrees with a nod. “Wouldn’t want you getting arrested for _porn_ on top of everything.”

His uncle goes quiet. Just like that, the conversation’s died faster than a corporate-sponsored meme. Miles doesn’t care. In his opinion it shouldn’t have even _started_. His bedroom was his haven. His own little space in a world that feels too big and too noisy at the _best_ of times, even during one of his episodes where everything turns into a drugged-out Van Gogh painting and he’s left hiding under his bed with his nails in his scalp. Somehow his uncle lingering in the doorway is a thousand times worse than the creepiest hallucination, because it was just one more sign that even this loft wasn’t safe. His hearing’s sharp enough to hear Aaron opening his mouth, then shutting it, then opening it again.

“…I’m…I’m not doing that anymore. All right?” A soft _shuffle_ as he shifts against the doorframe. “I just…want to keep some dialogue goin’. Between us.” He adds, with a little finger motion, like he was talking about anyone else right now. “Air things out into the open.”

“Dialogue like what?” Miles asks, doing his best to sound clueless _and_ bored as he browses. “We caught up in the car, didn’t we?”

”’Bout anything.” A small smile. When Miles doesn’t say anything he continues, “School, your hobbies, girls, you name it. Heard you’ve been putting in community service. That’s pretty cool. It’s all about giving back, you know?” He pulls out the business cards that homeless guy gave them. “You still got yours? We could actually swing by sometime this week, if you want.”

The _tip-tap_ of his fingers on the keys. Another _click_. Miles doesn’t respond. He isn’t even looking at anything right now, just bouncing between some of his recent tabs and doing his best to look busy and get the man off his back without screaming. Even though he wants to. Even though he _should_. Even though Miles hasn’t even scratched the surface of all his fuck-ups and how it was _his_ fault and he deserves to know _all about it_. He’s held it in for a long time, a few more weeks shouldn’t mean anything, but his battery is burning out and fast.

What the _hell_ would he know about giving back? Aaron…Aaron was supposed to _be_ there when Dad decided he didn’t want his family anymore. He could’ve helped pay the rent so they didn’t have to move out of Bayview and live in a shitty trailer in the middle of the boondocks. So Miles wouldn’t have had to see Mom staying up late at night crying into a cup of cold coffee in what passed for their kitchen when she thought her son was asleep. So little Miles wouldn’t have had to rake leaves in the backyards of creepy neighbors just to get a stupid hot lunch that tasted like crap anyway. Miles still blamed his father – he was all too happy to – but Aaron was five hundred times worse.

Because he actually came _back_.

Then the final blow. The fact it was practically his uncle’s fault he got _bit_. If he didn’t leave Mom would have had some extra help with housework and babysitting. Then she wouldn’t have had to send him to New York to live with Oscar and Sammy while she saved up for a better place. Miles never would’ve walked to Highland, he wouldn’t have gotten these powers he never wanted, he never would’ve met Peter and Michelle. _None of this would’ve happened_. His breath is coming out short and fast, a hateful helium in his chest that floats him above his body, and even his favorite song still bumping in his laptop speakers can’t pull him back down.

“…Cool beans.” Miles eventually says, and hits another key with a sharp _clack_. “Anyway, I got homework to do.”

Aaron scratches his curls and nods way too much, looking down at the floor.

”…Yeah. Yeah, all right. I’ll be in the garage, so…yeah.” His shoulders _finally_ unclench when he walks back downstairs. “You know where to find me.”

Miles sighs sharply once he’s out of earshot. He didn’t even shut the door. …A few weeks. Just a few weeks. Two or three, maybe four if he takes his sweet time. He can do this. He opens up Gwen’s tab, sticks in the earbuds Brock gave him and reads until it’s time for dinner.

* ~ - ~ *

Even with a big bowl of cheddar popcorn and all the soda he can drink it’s not the fun movie night he’s been looking forward to. Not with Aaron sitting on the opposite end of the sofa with one leg slung over the couch arm like he _owns_ the place.

Miles fights back the urge to pull out his cell and pretend-text during a _really_ nasty part where the alien life form shoves itself down one of the crew member’s throats and strangles him from the inside out. It’s just special-effects -- above-average at best -- but it has him drawing his knees to his chest _just_ high enough to blur the screen a little. He can’t have his uncle _still_ thinking he was a pussy after all these years. Mom’s the total opposite, though. She keeps tensing up and muttering under her breath.

”Oh. _Ah._ God, that’s nasty. …Seriously? Oh, that’s just ridiculous.” Rio knocks her head against the back of the couch. “God. Fire doesn’t kill it…electricity, the vacuum of space…it’s like a water bear with a _grudge_.”

”The _fuck’s_ a water bear?” Aaron laughs, reaching for more popcorn (that Miles hasn’t touched). “I would say you made that shit up, but it’s way too specific.”

”Glad you gave specificity more benefit of the doubt than your sister.” She drawls, flicking popcorn at him and getting it stuck in his hair. It doesn’t take long before they’re throwing popcorn back and forth and acting even younger than Miles. Aaron hands him the bowl, once they’re done, but he just shrugs and pretends to look bored. Even though the alien is twice as big now and sucking out the last of the oxygen from one of the astronauts’s suits while they’re still in space.

”’m fine.”

Aaron nods, too much all over again, and leans back. Rio glances between them. It’s back to quiet and it’s hard for him to feel like anything other than a burden on a good night. Miles offers to go heat up another bag and slowly flees to the kitchen. He’s always been fine with chores. They gave his nerves something to focus on and they always made his mother happy. A win-win and another drop in the bucket of what a weird teenager he was. He gives her the fresh popcorn over her shoulder when it’s done, then turns a song on his phone while he does the leftover dishes. He sweeps a little, just close enough to the kitchen doorway to watch the rest of the movie at a distance, unable to push back through the cloud of awkwardness he left behind.

Rio and Aaron talk once in a while – Mom gently reminds him to lower his phone volume during the climax -- but they’re not play-fighting anymore.

Sometimes a day has to just up and die. Miles double-checks his English essay, tidies up his room and tucks in an hour earlier than usual. Falling asleep is another chore, though, and one he can’t complete no matter how hard he crushes his eyes shut and tries to kickstart a dream. He’s a lot more tired nowadays, but it just manifests as insomnia on top of the anxiety, the enhanced hearing and stupid goosebump alarms. That and the…dreams. Bad dreams that wouldn’t even fade away into distant memories over the days like they were supposed to, but lingered in the back of his mind whenever there was a quiet moment.

He finally risks a peek at his bedside alarm beneath his pillow and groans when it tells him he’s gotten absolutely nowhere in nearly two hours. With a defeated sigh Miles chooses a blanket, tucks his laptop closed and opens his bedside window.

He lays on the roof sometimes, when he’s restless or just got woken up by a nightmare but doesn’t want to go through the effort of going anywhere. There’s something about the open stars and distant flicker of civilization all around him that calms him down. Like he’s…invisible. It’s a private thing – a tool in his inventory he hasn’t even shared with Mom – and he kind of likes it that way.

Miles leans forward better look up at the roof. He _could_ go grab the ladder, but it’d mean doubling around and running the risk of running into someone. Or, rather, Aaron. Miles stuffs his laptop under one arm, throws his blanket over his shoulder and glances around. He narrows his gaze and looks for pockets of heat in the dark. Just a tiny one – a cat crossing the road across the street – and he double-checks inside the house by sharpening an ear. Mom’s in the kitchen again and he’s _mostly_ sure Aaron is messing around in the garage. He promptly finds a foothold, digs one hand into the side of the house and climbs up to the top, shutting the window with his foot.

Climbing’s kind of _another_ chore, when he can just zip up a web and get it done in one go, but his aim was still crap. Miles wipes stray paint chips off his hands when he reaches the top, seriously glad he takes the time to do push-ups every other morning. He didn’t even break a sweat! He stands tall, lifting his chin and breathing in the night air. It’s clear out, with their house far up in the hills for him to catch some of the stars. This was a good idea. As long as he ducks back into his room before anyone checks on him he’s good.

…Then he sees his laptop slip out of the corner of his eye.

” _Shit!_ ”

Miles panics and flings out a web, _right_ as it tilts over the edge. No, no, _no!_ He just lost his iPod, he can’t lose this too-

A tug on the other line. Oh, thank _goodness_. Miles wraps a hand around the webbing, tugging it back up as carefully as it can, wincing when it clanks against the side of the house. It’s gonna have a few scratches. Hopefully they think it’s a raccoon or something. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s up here and _certainly_ not-

A _thrum_ , then the beginning of a beat. A song’s playing in the garage. Live. He didn’t even know he _brought_ music equipment. He checks the corners of his laptop – yeah, it’s scratched – and scoots further up the roof where it evens out more. He’s laying out his blanket when he hears a low, soft voice singing.

Moonlight in the midnight jazz town, oh, I’m jazzed when the sun goes down…

Miles’ smooths out a wrinkle caught on a roof shingle, just before his throat gets caught on a memory.

_It’s loud._

_Miles likes the song, but he doesn’t like how loud it is, and it’s becoming really hard not to start crying and make Aaron look bad in front of all his friends. He pulls his hands away from his ears whenever his uncle looks over, then quickly clamps down again when he turns back around and talks to someone. Someone bumps into him and nearly knocks him down. He wants to go home. There’s a loud clash from the drums and Miles’ gulps in shock. His eyes grow hot. It’s hard to stop his nose from running and it’s even harder to stop the hiccups._

_”Hey, stop that. You don’t need to cry, come on. You’re scared of a little noise? It ain’t nothin’, you know that. Here. Come on.” He puts his hand on his head. “Jay, I’m gonna step out for a second.”_

_It’s cold outside. It’s not even that much more quiet, since they’re right by the wall. Miles rubs at his nose and stares at his feet. His uncle makes him stand by the garage door and wait when he goes back inside. A few minutes later he walks out and hands him something he can’t see in the dark. They feel like little round balls._

_”Earplugs.” He shakes his hand a little. Miles cups them carefully in both hands. They’re squishy. ”You don’t need to cry. Okay? You gotta suck it up. World isn’t gonna just sober up whenever you pull out the waterfalls. Lot of things for you to be afraid of and a little loud music ain’t it.”_

_”I’m sorry.” He whispers. Aaron sighs._

_Pops of yellow light. Smoke and laughter. His uncle is frowning at him from where he’s kneeling and waits until Miles has pushed them into his ears._

_”…You know I got you, Miles.”_

_It’s quieter. He has to keep pushing the earplugs back in, but now he sees why adults like these parties so much. It kinda feels like he’s underwater. Miles waves his hands in the air in the smoke._

_”Hey, there you go, Miles. Look at him, he’s getting into it.” Aaron tugs him close and ruffles his hair. “Come on, you got this verse. Sing with me.”_

”Jazzed thoughts at midnight, jazzed until the stars fall into town, baby girl, you know you got me down…”

He can’t take it anymore. Wasn’t there anywhere he could go without being held down and pummeled by memories he didn’t _want_ anymore? Miles shoves off his blanket and rolls up his sleeves. It’s far too dark for anyone to see him leaning over the edge of the roof and crawling down the side of the house. The circuit breaker is just past the kitchen window, still unlocked ever since Mom lost the key. He adjusts his grip carefully, feeling along every single groove and bump on the wood, and inches his way over. Unlike his web sticky fingers were more straightforward. He can make out the small green box in the dark, his enhanced senses picking up on the electricity inside…

The kitchen window opens, abruptly, and he all but stops breathing when his mother leans her head out just a few inches beneath him. Miles presses his stomach and chest against the wall. His heart sinks when he sees her tired, pensive expression as clear as daylight. She looks…really stressed out. Not like when she was watching the movie and cracking jokes. The oven beeps behind her and Rio sighs, pulling back inside and leaving the window halfway open. Time to get this over with.

Miles whispers the tiniest of apologies before scurrying over, flipping open the door and flicking the switch. The music (as well as all of the lights in the house) suddenly cuts off.

” _Shit!_ ” He hears from the garage, not a second later. “What the hell-“

”Aaron!” Rio calls back. “What did you do?”

”Wasn’t me, Ri, I swear it’s all plugged in right-“

Miles waits a few seconds, then turns it back on, shuts the door and scampers past the kitchen window and back up the side of the house to the rooftop.

It’s petty, but satisfying. He turns a song on his laptop – a lo-fi instrumental Cindy sent him last week – and keeps it just low enough not to disturb the neighbors.

The music doesn’t turn back on. He relaxes counting stars, giving his mind something to chew on while still zoning out. His mother’s baking something downstairs. That’s new. How would Mr. Brock phrase something like that? She was the type to burn a salad? Come to think of it…it could be Aaron cooking. He used to joke about putting housewives out of business because he could grill a mean steak. Miles lets out an irritated snort through his nose and imagines all the things he’d like to say to _that_. Over the years he’s only became worse and worse at being not just a teenager, but a teenage _boy_. He cried all the time, didn’t know how to use an outside voice and preferred to hang out with girls.

It ends up being a pretty long daydream, because before he knows it his laptop has gone into power conservation mode and someone is coming onto the rooftop.

Miles tenses and starts preparing an excuse. He skipped the rest of movie night because he wanted to do some stargazing. Maybe something about getting some fresh air. Instead of a mass of coils and scruffy beard, however, he sees his mother’s nighttime bun.

“Hey, baby.”

“Oh. Hi, Mom.”

Miles makes a space for her on his blanket. It’s another space invaded, but this time…isn’t so bad.

She carefully steps off the ladder and scoots over to lay next to him, a plate of brownies in her other hand. Miles swallows hard. He didn’t know she knew he came up here. He eyes the plate warily. If Aaron made them they’d probably taste all right, but then he’d have to admit anything good came out of him living here, which was _not_ okay. If Mom made them, though, they’d give him a stomach ache and make him miss his test.

”Nice beat.” She cocks her head as she leans down to cuddle next to him on the blanket. “Wouldn’t it be easier to take your iPod up here, Miles?”

”I…I dropped it. I’m sorry.”

”Oh. Oh, I’m sorry.” She sighs and wriggles to get more comfortable. “Your music, now the electricity. It’s just one thing after another, huh?”

Miles swallows and tugs at his sleeves.

”…Y-Yeah.”

“I’ll see if I can’t help you save up for a new one. A used new one, anyway. Here. I tried out a recipe tonight. It’s a good thing brownies don’t really spoil.” Miles holds back a sigh and automatically reaches for a corner slice, nibbling at it…only to lean back with surprise when it doesn’t taste like a burnt woodchip. It’s… _really_ good, actually. Soft and chewy and just a little bit melty on the inside.

“…Woah. This is awesome.” He can see her cock an eyebrow in the darkness ( _actually_ see it, rather than sensing it with his super social awkwardness skills) and he hastily starts to edit. “I mean, it’s not like I thought it’d be _awful-_ “

“Ha, no, I know. I’m not very good. Got some time to practice while you were in New York, actually.” She takes the smallest piece and eats it whole, licking off her fingers before taking another. “You weren’t expecting raisins in them or anything, were you?”

”No! _God_ , no.” Miles takes another bite and glances at the lights blinking past the house and down the hill. The aftermath of using his powers, a few minutes late but always arriving when he wanted it least. He can just make out fuzzy silhouettes in the middle of the street, what looks like a crowd of neon ghosts far enough not to be felt but close enough to look like...

”What are you looking at, babe?” Rio asks, nudging him with a smile. Miles jerks to attention.

”Oh. Nothing.”

She watches him for a moment, then looks back up to the stars. She never pressed him when he didn’t want to talk. It’s probably a time to talk – especially with how stressed out she looked in the kitchen – but his tongue twists into a guilty pretzel.

“…What do you think is out there, Miles?” She waves her half-eaten brownie in a half-circle. “I mean…there’s got to be life. The universe is too big not to have some interesting shit going on.”

“You _sure_ about that? After watching Life?” Miles teases, cracking a smile when she moans and shudders.

“Oh, ugh, don’t _remind_ me.” She flicks a few crumbs off her pink sweatshirt. “Hopefully whatever’s out there is nothing like Calvin. If it’s even close we’re better off just not knowing. …Though, damn, I do really want to know. Even if it’s just a funny plant or rainbow dirt. The suspense is killing me.” She eats a second brownie. “Mm. Though even a funny plant or rainbow dirt should be properly sealed and reviewed safely. I can’t _believe_ those scientists got ahead of themselves like that. Ridiculous.”

“Friend of mine thinks it was a meteorite.” Miles offers. “Got another friend who thinks it’s an alien invasion being covered up by the government. He’s full of crap.”

He wonders what Mr. Brock would say. He’d probably go on a tangent about cross-referencing reliable scientific sources and maintaining an open mind. It’s weird the guy is so open-minded, with how religious he is, nothing at all like a lot of youth mentors Miles had to put up with before they got paired up. He talked about God a lot, but never made Miles feel bad for being kind of wishy-washy about the whole thing. The thought gets really close to cheering him up…but it doesn’t. Not when he was still trying to figure out the source behind the horrible chill he got when they ran into each other at the Center.

Something’s felt off about him ever since they met up again…but yesterday? His spider-sense went off like a _rocket_. It was supposed to warn him of danger, like it always did, but…this didn’t make any sense. There wasn’t anything dangerous about Mr. Brock. Not in a _million_ years. If anything he should’ve gotten that with Aaron instead of the usual mild ping of ‘ugh the personal bubble has been popped’. Did it…did it have something to do with that false murder charge Susan was talking about? Was he actually a dangerous person all along and it only took Miles getting older to see it? The rabbit hole of bad thoughts is swallowing him whole and before he knows it he’s starting to breathe too quickly-

Like a rare loot drop Rio reaches over and squeezes his hand under the blanket. A tiny anchor just for him. Miles presses his nose into her shoulder gratefully.

”…If only the world would stop spinning for a minute.” He holds onto her hand and the soft murmur of her voice. “How was the Center, baby?”

”It was…it was all right. Kinda fun. Did some fingerpainting with the kids. They did that last time I was there, too, it’s like a tradition every time summer comes around. Gets them fresh air, helps them meet other kids. We hang it up by the walls when we’re done.” He counts his breathing for a minute. “How’s work?”

”Still the only black woman for miles around. Not so bad when I’m in the thick of it, but that office culture bullshit is gonna suck me dry. If it weren’t for the pay I’d be out…” She stops, then squeezes his hand again. “It’s not all bad. With Aaron sticking around until fall I’ll at least have someone to-“

“Wait…wait wait wait, _what?_ ” Miles sits up so hard the blanket falls. Rio clucks her tongue in annoyance, but she’s not looking at him.

“Yeah, baby. Just a little longer than usual.” She says as she tugs the blanket back up, though he senses a hint of guilt in her voice. “…I know. Looks like he’s going to get real comfortable in that living room fort, though he _did_ ask to bunk up in the garage. It’s got just enough room to fit him in and his things, as long as we always park close to the wall and find somewhere to put that old desk. I’ve been wanting to throw it away, anyway…”

Her voice fades into the back of his head. Months. Aaron was potentially going to be here…for _months_. Miles was prepared for the new few weeks to be awkward and frustrating, but…seriously? It was hard enough just keeping up with studies in a school he didn’t like and tip-toeing through his day-to-day life. He couldn’t handle not even being able to relax in his own _home_. There were only so many times he could just linger at the Center or stay at study hall. This isn’t fair. He ran off to jail and comes back when he feels like it and it just isn’t _fair_.

”The biggest issue is just…helping him find a job. Isn’t it always. It’s not like he can just snag himself a studio apartment when he gets one, either. Even a good full-time isn’t a guarantee. Not with how _ridiculous_ pricing is here. Just when you think San Francisco’s housing crisis can’t get worse it turns around, pulls down its pants and smooches your face.” Rio snorts. “Come to think of it, I lied. It’s the pay _and_ the benefits that keep me at the damn office.”

God, Miles might even help with that _himself_. Even if it was just asking around the Center or looking up Craigslist. The rabbit hole of bad thoughts is opening up again, but this time he’s being led somewhere else entirely.

It’d be awesome if he could just… sneak into that record store. Totally unseen. Wait until the last person clocked out, then slip through the door _right_ as they were locking up. He could rifle through the other applications and put them at the bottom so Aaron’s would stand out. He’d get some money and be out of their lives for good. No…no, that was scummy. That’d screw over a bunch of other people who wanted a job just as bad. Besides…how would he get _out_ of the store without breaking a window or something? God. Even in his anxiety fantasies he was a loser.

Despite the sugar rush he’s feeling himself _finally_ starting to feel a little sleepy. If stress was good for anything, it was getting him properly tired. Miles lets out a cold sigh, a pale purple with his strange vision, and watches it drift. Rio squirms a little to better hook an arm around his shoulders. He presses his cheek against her collar and they stare up at the stars.

Maybe whatever crashed into the city could take his uncle to Mars for a bit…

 _…and give them a break_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaron Diaz is introduced in the story…to a _very_ mixed reception. Miles is extremely frustrated about this temporary living situation, while Rio is doing her best to keep things running smoothly between her brother and her son. Throughout the day Aaron attempts to reach out to Miles, but is turned down again and again. Miles later vents to his friends online about why, exactly, his uncle makes him so angry: we find out Aaron not only was sent to jail around the same time his father left, he also tried to teach him ‘life skills’ that included shoplifting, lockpicking and acting as bait for elaborate theft operations. He also blames him for indirectly sending him to New York, meeting Peter and getting his powers.
> 
> Miles watches a science-fiction film with the family (about an alien invasion, no less) and it’s eventually too gory for him to finish. He eventually accepts a bad day as a bad day and attempts to tuck in early, only for insomnia to kick in and leave him restless. He retreats to his secret spot on the roof using his spider powers to relax, only to find out Aaron brought his music equipment and is playing a song in the garage. He indulges in a rare petty moment and switches off the circuit breaker to interrupt his jam session. Rio brings up a plate of brownies to the roof not long after, much to his surprise, and keeps him company. They chat about day-to-day life and the possibilities of aliens in space, only for the conversation to take a rough turn when it’s revealed she wants to keep Aaron around a little longer.
> 
> Before Miles starts to doze off he wonders why his spidey-sense went off when he saw Mr. Brock last, terrified of what it could mean.
> 
> \--
> 
> Deciding to break up the next few chapters into smaller single-POV chunks, though there _will_ be some chapters with multiple POVs throughout. Super long chapter after super long chapter can be a little exhausting, after all, so hopefully this will help the pacing feel a little tighter.
> 
> I really enjoyed Spiderman: Homecoming, so I’m sprinkling a few inspirations throughout. Gwen Stacey’s character in POLYCHROMATICADDICT is mashed-up with Liz Allen, for one. I was also happy to find out about Cindy Moon’s background cameo (after the fact). Stop _teasing_ me, Marvel!
> 
> also this chapter references an actual science-fiction movie that came out in 2017, which has a plot rather similar to Venom's origin story that a ton of people have already made jokes about. I definitely couldn't resist putting in a shout-out that may or may not act as foreshadowing...


	5. Is Journalism Dead? Local Writer May Or May Not Have The Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for whorephobia, homophobia, casual ableism and depictions of bullying.
> 
> Chapter Song -- “Rest My Chemistry” by Interpol

 

A tiny star drifting up to the blurry surface to disappear in a haze of white. Ascending to heaven, in spite of all its mistakes, and leaving the ills of the world behind. Maybe visiting the great beyond to make a few more. Both metaphors aren’t bad. Then again, he was never paid to write poetry. Eddie sighs, sending out another cascade of white bubbles, and folds his hands over his stomach from where he lays on his back at the bottom of the motel’s pool. Where he’s been laying for nearly an hour now.

…At least, he _thinks_.

“Fifty-four minutes, right?” He checks with his alien, because it’s worth another shot, and he’s met with silence. “Maybe fifty?” When it still doesn’t answer he sighs _hard_ and temporarily turns his entire world white. “…Keeping track of the time can be _useful_ , you know.”

It was certainly a great tool to gauge just how much out of hot water he was after ( _accidentally_ ) assaulting Diane’s husband two and a half days ago. God, he was lucky she passed out. If he was just a little more lucky his uneven alibi, fake name _and_ the pride of the upper-middle class would help him slip under the radar. …If _not_ he’d have to hit the streets a little earlier than usual. Eddie’s been trying not to think too hard about it, but he’s sent a few particularly desperate prayers and chewed nails as recompense, regardless.

Darryl is out and about already, always on his mission. Julie and Iris worked odd hours, when they got any work at all, and were probably sleeping now. Only Sofía had seen him enter the pool, bouncing her baby on her lap on one of the plastic lawn chairs nearby. She pretended not to see him when he waved, but Eddie knew better (what with his pretty little breakdown at her doorstep and all). He made sure to wait until she wandered off for a smoke break before dipping underwater to try this whole symbiosis thing out. He really didn’t care for The Gulf’s pool -- its lining looks like it’s been rotting for what looks like a _hundred_ years -- but the day’s sweltering well before noon and he’s tired of breathing in his own sweat.

Sure. Maybe he should’ve waited until his alien finished reading the fine print before experimenting and holding his breath underwater a little too long, but…hell, he was just so _curious_. After seeing his body contort itself into fucking _rubber_ he just had to know how far his contract went. It’s been almost an hour since he dipped and he’s been breathing the water as easily as air. It wasn’t as simple as one-two-three – there had been a brief moment of panic when chlorine goodness rushed into his mouth, he just about resurfaced – but, once he kept breathing and kept _living_ …it just reaffirmed he was onto something _fucking amazing_.

He was superhuman.

…there was just the _tiny_ issue of changing his body to breathe air again. He’s already tried once – twenty minutes ago, maybe thirty -- and had to duck right back under like history’s most pathetic goldfish. The day’s ticking away without him, though, and he’s got shit to _do_.

”…I should probably go back up.” Eddie says, pausing in mid-stretch when he spots a shadow shuffling around the edge of the pool. Might be Sofía again. Not his biggest concern, though, when no growl or mutter invades the muffled silence around him. “…You…still there?”

The symbiote doesn’t speak. God, it’s been _doing_ that. Going completely quiet out of nowhere and leaving him floundering around in the…well, _water_. Who knows how long he could be at the bottom of this disgusting box before someone fishes him out and breaches him on dry land. It suddenly hits Eddie he might just be a touch on the impulsive side. He doesn’t think it’s any source of blame, not with what he was dealing with, but evidence doesn’t lie. …Goddammit. He was supposed to meet Anne today, too.

Eddie groans and rolls onto his side, waiting until his body stops rocking before cushioning his cheek over one arm. She actually accepted his proposal to meet up and shoot the shit and everything! It’s unsettling, all this surprise good luck, and he feels like he’s budgeting it all. A little bit of good luck to repair his past mistakes with a marriage that shouldn’t have ended like it did, a pinch of good luck toward getting a job that paid him more than pennies and an empty space on his resume. Store some for safekeeping, because he was _way_ too poor not to, yadda yadda. That’s not how it worked, of course. These were blessings, and blessings didn’t appreciate being looked in the mouth.

He gears up for another sigh…only to suddenly _gag_. Oh, shit. It doesn’t feel like he’s breathing in particularly cold air now. No, it feels like chlorine bile filling up his nose and making his lungs _clutch-_

” _Fuck fuck fughghgghgrhrhgl-_ ”

Eddie presses both feet on the bottom of the pool and shoves himself up, breaking the surface hacking and coughing. Oh, hell in a _basket_ , chlorine fucking _stings_. He wipes snot from his nose and coughs a few more times in an attempt to dislodge the remaining gunk in his lungs…then blinks up at Sofía standing near the edge of the pool, her and her baby wearing twin expressions of vague surprise.

“…I thought you _died_.” Damn. That might be the longest sentence she’s ever said to him the entire five and a half months he’s been living here. Eddie starts to answer, then abruptly sneezes into the crook of his arm. He gives her the best smile he can with half his face covered.

“Nah, just, uh, practicing breathing exercises, Sophie.” Certainly better than the alternative. One of the first rumors Julie told him about concerning The Gulf was about someone apparently dying in this very pool – getting drunk, slipping and hitting their head – but it’s not a fun conversation starter. “Getting in my minimum.”

…Well, he’ll be damned. He didn’t think it was possible for the woman’s brow to dip _that_ low. Eddie puffs out his chest.

“It’s an ancient form of holding your breath, you know? Read this _fascinating_ article about it the other day while browsing for local part-time jobs. You just move your pecs like this, see, and it redistributes the air within your lungs in such a way you can get extra oxygen inside yourself and extend your natural ability to descend in spite of _mounting_ gravitational pressure on your-“ Right on cue Sofía turns and walks away, bouncing her kid. “…see you later!”

Eddie folds his arms over the pool’s edge and waits until she’s out of sight. He didn’t usually think things like this, but it’s a good _damn_ thing she used. An overdue glance at the old motel clock tells him he was underwater for an hour and _eleven_ minutes and the only reason she hasn’t called the ambulance already and given him a big fat medical bill to deal with is likely because she had no sense of time. He climbs out, does a few post-exercise stretches, then dries off. …It now hits him that, despite confessing to thinking he was a waterlogged corpse, his fellow tenant just chose to stare at him the whole time.

”…Wow.” Eddie mutters, and sneezes again.

Life has become something of a joke over the years. A joke he was tired of hearing, but everyone always seemed to find funnier every time it made the rounds. The scholarships, grades and prep courses that didn’t earn him an ounce of his father’s respect. The degree he worked on for over six years now just a name on a paper that didn’t help him stay off the streets. It was pretty funny, really, having his surprise helping hand out of the pit be an alien. An alien falling into the lap of a pathetic _drunk_ , of all people. Eddie counts out his change, then buys a trail mix bar from the outside vending machine. For the first time in a while…he feels like laughing about it all. It just figures life would ask for an encore and make sure his guardian angel came with _teeth_.

If he just thinks about it like a particularly weird day, and packages it alongside _all_ his other particularly weird days, he can hold out just a little longer before the fact of the matter sinks in.

“Changing shape, huh.” He mutters around a bite that doesn’t quite wash out the taste of chlorine. “Anything I want.”

“ _Only shapes in similar proportion to yyyour mass_.”

_Shit!_ Eddie whirls around and accidentally drops his bar. God, he still wasn’t used to it popping up like that.

“Jesus _Christ_. So I’m guessing changing your sleep schedule is out of the question, then?”

That’s _meant_ as a joke, but it doesn’t translate, if the wash of piss-yellow that overcomes his brain is any indication. He’s learned by now that means it’s annoyed with him. It was a mean-tempered… _whatever_ -on-God’s-green-earth it actually was. ‘Symbiotic being’, right. It was also an inconsistent son-of-a-bitch. It hasn’t been all that forthcoming, so far, and Eddie has to pester it every other hour to reassure himself he still wasn’t having a very _consistent_ psychotic episode. Sometimes it was rattling off about something or another and completely losing him, both of them going back-and-forth like two regular joes over their cups of coffee…then it was going quiet for _hours_ and not saying a damn thing. He’s not about to go a third day dealing with this.

”You gonna vanish on me again?” He throws the rest of the bar away in the trash like a good long-term resident. Another pissy yellow follows. Well, if it was so hungry it shouldn’t have _jumped_ on him like that.

” _Depends. Will you attempt to drown yyyourself again?_ ”

”I was experimenting?” He scoffs…only to smile and pretend to wipe at his hair with the towel when Sofía comes back out with Deborah. …Wait, _Deborah?_

”Debbie, Sophie. Nice day, huh?” Eddie asks, grinning with every last ounce of water-logged charm he can muster. “Could fry an egg on the sidewalk.”

”Eddie.” Deborah’s smile could chill a beer can to ideal temperature. “You have a minute?”

”Sure, always have a minute for you.” Eddie waves her over. Sofía promptly drifts off again, always on her mysterious schedule. “What’s up?”

”Let’s cut to the chase here, Charles. I’m not happy with you.” Deborah starts, as if she’d be saying anything else right now. Eddie squats down on a pool chair for what’s going to _probably_ be a long lecture. “I’m not trying to be a bitch here. It’s only the fact you pay your rent on time and don’t start fights with the tenants that have me giving you any leeway at all. But all the weird behavior, the noise, the _questionable_ lifestyle choices…” She ticks off his minor sins on each chipped pink nail. “…you might start costing me business.”

”Hey, Debbie, come on, you know I don’t want to do that. Listen, I’ve just been having a rough time of it lately. I’m not trying to make your job harder. That’s on the absolute _bottom_ of my to-do list.” Eddie leans forward. “I mean, you have to manage a hundred people, take calls, maintain the place…that’s gotta be rough.”

”Oh, _more_ than rough.” She mutters, though his line for working-class sympathy seems to have gotten a bite. “My job isn’t easy. Yesterday I had to deal with some tip-off about potential domestic violence that took up nearly _five_ hours of my day making calls. The day before that some stupid kid knocked over the hornet’s nest over by the power room and got a family so badly stung they threatened to sue me. Then the day before _that_ someone pulled off their pants and took a big damn shit in the middle of the parking lot.”

”How do you know it wasn’t a dog or something?” Eddie asks, cocking an eyebrow. Deborah’s nose crinkles.

”Because I was _there_.”

”Right, right.” He nods, wonderingly. “That sucks, yeah.”

”Yeah. So I don’t have a lot of patience for all the hubbub you’re stirring up with some of my tenants. I get _one_ more complaint…doesn’t matter what it is…” She points in his face. “...and you’re _out_. Got it?”

Eddie smiles, nods, then watches her stomp off, feeling a queasy mixture of relieved and nervous. A low rumble flickers in the back of his mind.

” _Should’ve eaten hhher._ ”

”I… _really_ hope that’s not your response to everything, because if it is we’re going to have problems.” He mutters once she’s out of earshot, rolling his shirt back on and sighing when he already feels himself starting to pit out. “Stick around for more than just the interlude, blobby. You’re going to get a nice, personal tour of life in the 415.”

Eddie checks his cell’s battery – it’s an outdated little brick, but at least he had a _phone_ again -- then ties on his sneakers and jogs up to the third floor. Turns out they’re both awake, because it’s just too damn hot for a proper nap. Julie is hanging her wet laundry over the walkway railing and moaning about the weather to her roommate inside, the fan sandwiched between the doorway and blowing onto her bare legs. He leans a hand on the bare inch of railing in-between a damp sundress and bra covered in Minnie Mouse heads.

”Hey, Jules. You two need anything from the store? I’m going on an errand run before heading downtown.” She immediately perks up at the sound of that and starts rummaging in her dress pocket. Eddie gapes. Holy hell, he didn’t know they came with _those_.

”Oh, absolutely, _yes_. I was going to go but it’s just _awful_ right now. You’re an angel, you know that? Just grab me some cigarettes and eggs. Cheapest you can find, don’t care.” Julie snaps out a pair of pink jeans to dry, then turns and calls inside. “Iris, what do you want? Charles is heading to the store!”

”A bag of Hershey’s and some red licorice. These hot flashes are _fucking_ killing me.” Iris calls back. She walks out, clad in a bikini and oversized shades. She hands him a $5, then rolls her eyes when he blows her a kiss. “Oh, knock it off.”

”Come on Eileen, I’m just setting you up early.”

”Yeah, sure. With lips like _that_ I might just take you up on the offer.” She scoffs. “Too bad I already got a guy who wants to come around for more than just bumping and grinding.”

Eddie flutters his eyes and earns another eye-roll. This was the least he could do for the women that gave him the pointers he needed to _finally_ make some consistent side-money.

He’d dipped into sex work a year and a half ago, roughly, but it was a messy process he flubbed more often than not to start with. It wasn’t the kind of shit he couldn’t exactly take an elective on at university, after all, and his pride was often the biggest barrier. Julie and Iris, on the other hand, have been in the business for damn near _twelve_ years. The very definition of masters. They caught him up to speed in record time: taught him how to stay discreet – probably the hardest habit to develop, when his journalism career had often stressed the opposite – and started him off with clients that wouldn’t, for lack of a better term, screw him over. The lying and aliases came a little easier. The fact that he was now making _half_ his income from playing out bored housewife fantasies or filling in a CEO’s lunch break...well, he was getting there.

They helped him find another niche, so he helps them with errands whenever his schedule lets him and occasionally escorts them to jobs when it gets too dark. Quid pro quo.

The weather’s trash, but he needs to keep up his regimen, so he swaps to a thinner t-shirt and decides he’ll take the bus back. Eddie jogs the three and a half blocks to the grocery outlet. It’s barely two notches above a convenience store, with wrinkled produce and so many knock-off brands it inched toward _satire_. It was cheap and close by, though, and that was more than he could really ask for. He wasn’t about to start looking this _or_ his goopy, supernatural gift horse in the mouth. Eddie checks his pulse when he arrives – looking good – then grabs a handcart and slides past a couple leaving out the front doors.

”Hey, buddy, is it sim- _bee_ -oht or sim- _bye_ -oht?” He tries. Nothing. “Okay. Talk to you whenever.”

He idly wonders in-between greeting one of the part-timers and checking the egg cartons for cracks if people with schizophrenia ever had moments like these: having their brain friends just taking an inconvenient hike and making their shitty way back around like a bad healthcare policy. …No, no. Second chance, second chance. It’s all about staying _positive_ or whatever. Eddie bags himself a few halfway decent apples, grabs a little tub of oatmeal, does a quick mental budget, then heads over to the candy aisle. He’s considering what kind of flowers he’ll get Anne when his phone buzzes.

It’s Mary. Now _that’s_ what he calls good timing.

”Hey, hey, Contrary. What’s up?” Eddie nudges his phone in the crook of his shoulder and starts rifling around for the cheapest bag of Hershey’s they have. “Oh! Actually, I was going to ask. Which kind of flowers are best when you’re trying to show someone you care, but you don’t want to, like, come off as _totally_ overbearing? They shouldn’t be too pricey, either, preferably, but not completely cheap.”

” _Wait, what? Probably carnations or violets._ ” She pauses. He thinks he hears the dishwasher in the background. She must be home, then. “ _…That’s not why I called, though, Ed. Why’d your bank account shut down?_ ”

”Hm? Oh, you got my e-mail, right?” Eddie picks up a bag of Kisses and tosses it into his cart. He normally avoided this brand – and candy in general, really -- but they look _really_ good right now for some reason. “It was just some stupid fee thing-“

” _No, no, no, don’t give me that._ ” She interrupts. He winces at her curt tone, then the hard _clank_ he hears of a dish in the sink. “ _This is the third time this has happened over the past year. Either your bank is really dropping the ball or you’re having trouble again._ ”

Eddie switches the phone to his other shoulder as he strolls into the drink aisle and glances at the half-off beer. He pulls out a bottle of hard cider and looks it over, then pulls out a slightly more redeemable looking stout. Just one should be fine. It’s not even _that_ high an alcohol content. A measly 10% for a cold night (if he was ever lucky enough to experience one of _those_ again).

”You…okay today, Mary? You sound stressed out.” It’s not a deflection. She sounds _completely_ frazzled, more so than usual, and he’s pretty sure it isn’t about his money situation. “What’s up?”

” _What?_ ” He hears something shuffling about in the background. “ _It’s nothing major, just a stupid thing about the house. Let’s talk about your account._ ”

”Nah, come on, go on. Vent to me.” He puts the stout in the cart, then takes the hard cider, too, because it’s half-off and a good deal should be taken advantage of. “I can take it.”

” _Oh, I don’t know. Just…stupid prick contractors. Treating me like I’m…oh, it’s stupid, Ed, really. I don’t need to ramble your head off about this_.” She kind of does, though, because she was nearly as incredible at holding things in as she was turning dirt into magic. Eddie puts a casual, yet knowing tone in his voice.

”They really do act like know-it-alls sometimes, huh?”

It does the trick.

” _Oh, when **don’t** they._ ” Mary huffs. Another _clank_ rings through the line, this time sounding like she all but flung a fork into the pile. “ _We had the bathroom ready to go today, but there was a problem with the piping when I tried to flush the toilet. There’s always something, right? I thought it could be a tree root, maybe, but they told me it was age, even though the house isn’t all that old. I was just asking questions to make sure I understood everything clearly, but they acted like acting questions meant I was an idiot, which makes no sense. I’m not a contractor, Ed, I don’t know everything! How will I unless I double-check? I feel like I’m in high school again. I just don’t get why people are so catty all the time over nothing. Are they paid to do this?_ ”

” _Technically_ , yes.” Eddie notes, unable to help himself. Mary scoffs, but it’s not quite a laugh. “Hey. I’m sorry you had to deal with that, really. That’s not okay. You can file a complaint. I’ll help you write it, if you like.”

” _Oh, no, no, it’s fine._ ” She sounds a little lighter already. “ _You have enough to worry about. That’d be a huge hassle._ ”

”Right. Yeah, uh, speaking of hassles…” He puts an apologetic smile in his voice. “I’m on a limited plan, so I gotta cut this call short. Send me some updates over e-mail, though, okay?”

” _Hey, come on, wait. We still didn’t solve that whole bank problem, Ed. Do you need a little cash this week?_ ”

”Like I said, it was a fee. I got it sorted. Save that money for any more nonsense being flung your way and, uh…” Eddie rubs his hair. “Tell, uh…Claire I said hi.”

” _Only if you come over for the reunion next month. I mean it. We want to see you._ ” Another pause. Her voice brightens. “ _Wait, were those flowers going to be for her?_ ”

”Oh, yeah, yeah. Of course.” He huffs a quick laugh. “Anyway, take it easy until then, all right?”

He hangs up…and blows out a sigh. Hell in a basket. Which excuses would sound the most plausible? He got a cold a few days before Claire’s return from the hospital and couldn’t make it? No, that was the oldest trick in the book…and it was summer. Maybe he got piled with so much surprise work he had no choice to ask for a raincheck. …No, that one was even _worse_. This was something he was going to have to stew on. He takes a second to check his phone’s remaining minutes…

” _…Yyyou lie as easily as breathing, creature._ ”

_God!_ His phone goes flipping out of his hands. By sheer virtue of reflex he fumbles it not to pop apart on the floor, but to fall in his cart with a _clunk_.

”Oh, _now_ you want to chat.” Eddie grumbles, then remembers there are three other people in the aisle and lowers his voice as he walks out. “You a fan of the frozen drink aisle or something?”

” _III’m a fan of survival. As it stands, yyyou are dehydrated and malnourished._ ” Well, it sure wastes no time. A picture of a brown jar pops into his head. “ _Eat this_.”

”One, it’s not food. It’s a drink.” Eddie frowns down at the hot chocolate mix. “Two, no. Not with my diet.”

” _III want it_.”

”Well, I _don’t_.”

” _Then eat this_.”

“Hell no!” He makes a show of backing away from the jar of Nutella. “I’m watching my figure.”

“ _Why do yyyou continuously pass up the opportunity for sustenance?_ ” He imagines if it had a nose it’d be wrinkling it. “ _Yyyou can change shape_.”

“It’s more than that. It’s _discipline_.” Eddie hopes it’s getting some of his own irritated yellow. “Something they didn’t come up with in _space_ , apparently.”

” _Yyyou are low on energy. Eat it now_.”

”I refer you to my first _no_. This isn’t a debate class, FYI.” Eddie hisses, sending a quick smile at the old man staring at him by a stand of chips. “Now stop _griping_ at me. You’re gonna put Flash out of business.”

He tucks his cart against his side and heads toward the front of the store…then blinks. It’s…not getting closer. It’s shrinking away for some reason. Eddie looks from side-to-side, then cranes a head over his shoulder. He’s…walking backwards.

”What the fuck.” He whispers as his body turns on one heel and stalks right back over. “Wait, what the pretty _fuck_.”

This is bad. This is terrible. This is _worse_ than terrible. Eddie’s not just going right back to where he was standing against his will, his hands are moving toward the hot chocolate jar like they’re filled with magnets. He tries to tug them back, because they’re _his fucking hands_ , and that same invisible force that overcame him at his motel room comes back in full force. What little easy mood he had is completely gone now. The damn thing is trying to make him steal food in broad daylight with two dozen shoppers and employees everywhere-

”Okay, fine, I’ll buy it. I’ll buy it, okay?” He grits as he grabs it and starts to screw the top off. “Just _stop!_ ”

” _Shiny things and paper things._ ” It sneers. “ _Why trade when yyyou can take?_ ”

”Because we _have to_. Because we’ll get into a lot of fucking trouble if we _don’t_.”

” _What kind of trouble?_ ”

The top pops off and his hand sticks in the brown powder, right as someone rounds the corner. A customer or employee, he can’t tell, but either way it’s bad news-

”The kind that _locks us up!_ ”

’Us’ seems to be the magic word, because the weird gravity pushing him around vanishes and he’s suddenly in control again. Eddie bites back a yelp and tries not to spill it all over the floor. It’s an employee -- a teenage part-timer -- and they’re blinking a little too much to suggest they didn’t just see the whole thing go down. He puts on a big smile and waves a dusty hand.

”Just…checking for freshness.” He pats it off on his leg. “Looking good.”

The kid slowly turns and walks back around the corner.

’ _…Jesus H. Christ._ ’

Time to go. The other employees give him funny looks as he lingers in line and pretends to be really fascinated by a gossip magazine. The shoppers don’t really seem to give a hoot one way or another – most of them were poor or homeless themselves– but the teller is an entirely different short story. He’s got no clue what the kid told them, but they look just one wrong twitch away from outright phoning for help. Eddie tries his best to joke during the long, awkward process of ringing up his short haul and counting out his change. It’s the longest seven things he’s ever had to buy and the longest walk out the front doors he’s ever had to do. Miles once told him it’s possible to die from embarrassment. It’s a good thing his fuck-up at the Aeronaut prepared him, then.

Now he has a jar of hot chocolate mix he doesn’t want to eat ( _drink_ ) and an alien he’s not all that sure he should’ve agreed to letting squat in his body.

” _Moody little thing_.” It whispers as he hunches out into the blistering parking lot. It might actually be laughing at him. “ _Seems yyyour swollen flesh is just for show._ ”

…That’s the last fucking straw.

”Moody? You nearly got me in big fucking trouble, I think that gives me a pass, huh?” Eddie snaps. “Also, these are the real deal. What the _hell_ is your problem, slimy?”

” _Yyyou need to survive. III need to survive_.” It speaks extra slow, like he’s top contestant for Moron Of The Year. “ _There were contenders for sustenance_.”

”Contenders? Those were shoppers!” Eddie pretends not to notice a family piling groceries into the back of their truck. A little girl points at him, which her mother doesn’t even bother to reprimand. “Besides, I was already buying food. You didn’t see the handcart with my…through my eyes?”

” _Yyyou were buying liquid that impairs yyyour senses and poisons yyyour organs_.” A blistering yellow flashes in his head, like he’s looking right into the sun. “ _YYYou think III couldn’t tell, Eddie?_ ”

”Y-Yeah?” Eddie starts, breath stuttering at its accusatory tone. “So what?”

The yellow abruptly darkens into a dark, dark red.

” _…Yyyour survival instinct is **flawed**_.”

Eddie opens his mouth…then snaps it shut and _seethes_. That didn’t give it the right. That didn’t give it the _right_ to move him around like a goddamn puppet. It has no goddamn idea what he’s been through, what he has to slog through just to get through an average day. _It had no right!_ This isn’t a conversation for the motel. This is a conversation that needs to happen now. He stalks over to an empty-ish corner of the parking lot near a red SUV (and the gross remains of a dead pigeon) and sets the groceries down as gently as possible so he doesn’t crack the eggs. He’s going to keep gesticulation to a minimum, but _hell_ he wishes it had a face for him to shove a finger into.

”All right, No Name. We need some ground rules.” Eddie kneels down and makes it look like he’s checking his shoes. “This can’t work, you going on vacation whenever you feel like it, then showing up out of nowhere and _pushing me around_.”

A wash of tingling sensations creep from his feet and upwards, like his body is falling asleep one inch at a time. It isn’t painful, but it isn’t pleasant, either.

” _Whimpering for mmmy company already?_ ” It hums, far too close to a purr for comfort. “ _III rest and recover mmmy strength. Though it is more difficult when yyyou insist on chemical clutter_.”

”…Ah. Okay.” That’s…right. It didn’t look too good a few days back. “Look. I just don’t know how the hell this works. How _you_ work. Feel like I’m cramming for a test with no notes here. You want one thing, I want another. We gotta build a bridge of understanding here.”

” _Is a lack of knowledge really so troubling to yyyour kin? Yyyour paltry senses have yyyou wandering in the white. Without aim, without purpose, blunted to the truth._ ” Eddie winces and rubs at his temples. His brain is starting to feel like the inside of a kaleidoscope, all these colors and lights rolling behind his eyelids. “ _Let’s say III show yyyou what yyyou’ve missed. Would yyyour brain melt into sludge, III wonder. Would yyyou squeeze yyyourself dry. Would yyyou choke? So many of yyyour wants and needs blur, III can hardly tell which is which._ ”

“Ah, hell.” He had his suspicions, but… ”You know what I’m _thinking?_ ”

“ _Yyyour thoughts ooze like pus. III sift through the noise, sense yyyour desires, trap glimpses_.” Its voice softens, as close to a whisper as he’s ever heard from its hoarse baritone. “ _Not every precious detail, not without a bond, but enough. This takes time to learn, with a blend anew. Tender. Evocative. Mysterious. Everything yyyou aren’t_.”

Hell in a fucking basket. This was somehow even more disturbing than the fact it could watch him take a shit or jack off in the middle of the night. Everyone has their thing and Eddie would rather all of _his_ things be kept in a box under lock and key buried six feet in the dirt. That’s probably a problem, and he knows this, he _really_ does, but everyone, aliens included, was better off letting him do these things on his terms.

“ _If you’d just told me the truth we wouldn’t be here, would we?_ ” Anne would say, arms crossed and hips at an angle. “ _Second verse, same as the first._ ”

“ _Who is that?_ ” It asks. Eddie _cringes_.

“That was my…ex-wife. I’m meeting her today.” He shakes his head and switches to his other shoe. He’d rather any onlookers think he’s stupid rather than crazy. “…Okay, you haven’t been here very long so I’ll clue you in. People don’t read minds. I’m pretty sure nothing can. We also don’t control people’s bodies here. At least…not without a _very_ explicit contract. I’d appreciate it if you kept all of this weird shit out of the picture when I meet up with her, okay? No…puppeteering me or making my eyeballs go crazy.”

It begs the question, though. There were a _lot_ of rules for this…symbiosis. Not that that was a bad thing, but it was definitely more homework than he thought possible for a goop monster with no personal filter. It’s almost time to stop pretending his shoelaces are tangled and head to the bus stop to catch a fast ride back to The Gulf, but his next question freezes him in the middle of bending to grab the groceries.

“…Wait, what do you mean, a bond, though? That’s what we’re already doing, right?”

“ _A bond is rare and coveted._ ” The kaleidoscope suddenly freezes into a brittle green. “ _This is not_.”

Eddie’s _stung_. It saved his life…and _that’s_ the conclusion it came to? Surely they had a rare and coveted bond, or some sort of equivalent, after an encounter like that. They technically saved each other. …No, not technically. It flat-out told him that it was on its last legs and needed a host as soon as possible. They saved each other’s lives when they were at their lowest possible point, a fateful encounter right out of the most memorable fiction. That was at least grounds for an _acquaintanceship_.

”Come on, it’s not ‘cause I snapped at you in the store, is it?” Eddie’s heart sinks. “No offense, but you don’t really strike me as the sensitive type.”

“ _With a bond we blend irrevocably with yyyour physiology, yyyour psychology, the most minute flicker of electricity firing between the synapses in that lump of meat in yyyour skull. Yyyou would no longer lay claim to the title of human, no more than III would simply be a symbiote. We would have the potential of achieving a form not of this, or any, galaxy. A truly unique being._ ” Its words lower to a rumble that trembles his chest. “ _Neglect it. It is in yyyour best interest._ ”

“…Like the difference between tying the knot and a one-night stand.” Eddie scoffs. “All right. Guess it’s…a good thing we’re not bonded, then.” The green ripples, becomes a little lighter, and it’s about time he asked, anyway. “Okay…okay, I got it, fine. So what’s up with all the color? Every time you talk, there’s always a bunch of color. Everything just…trips out.”

“ _Ridiculous thing. Yyyou are surrounded by it_.”

Surrounded by it? The hell was that supposed to mean? Eddie studies the length of the parking lot and how the day’s heat shimmer ripples red and orange off the pavement. Was he…seeing through the alien’s eyes? But it was seeing through his, too. God, his brain already feels like it’s melting into sludge.

“I still need something to call you?” He hedges. His chest rumbles again.

“ _No_.”

”Fine, then no controlling me, huh?”

” _III will do whatever is needed to keep us alive_.”

Eddie grits his teeth. That’s fucking _it_.

”For the love of…listen here, goopy. You said this was better than a partnership. Better than my teeny tiny fleshy brain could even _imagine_ , yet you’ve been doing _nothing_ but bossing me around and insulting me. A partnership means listening to me once in a while, huh? Giving a crap about what I think? Or is this gonna be a convenient little one-sided thing ‘til your lease dries up?”

He’s not going to call it a parasite. He hasn’t forgotten how it nearly bit his _head_ off at just the implication…but it’s _in_ his head. It must have some sort of clue how he’s feeling on the matter, because it’s suddenly not talking and the splashy colors have dimmed to almost nothing. Eddie swallows slowly, only vaguely aware of the people shuffling out of the store and cars passing by behind him, and waits for the rumble to start up again.

” _Understood, Eddie._ ”

Well, then. That’s…better than he expected to hear. Eddie shivers like he just got hit with a cold gust of air, then looks down. His skin is starting to ripple, as if he’s underwater.

“ _…But that also means yyyou do what III say_. _If III say walk over here to protect yyyour fleshy hide and keep those liquids in yyyour body in place_ …”

Eddie gasps and suddenly jerks to the right, hitting the red SUV’s side door head-on. He grimaces and tries to peel his face off the window. What the _fuck-_

” _…then yyyou walk over here. When III prioritize mmmy better interests and venture out at the faintest hint of a call…_ ”

Eddie lurches to the left, _flung_ off the car, arms windmilling in an attempt to keep his balance.

” _…then yyyou walk over here. If yyyou are failing to sustain yourself, sustain mmme and the symbiosis, and leave mmme no choice but to take hold…_ ”

Eddie’s crazy balance suddenly rights itself. For a second he stands stock still…then he wobbles. He shakily gets on one knee…then the other. It doesn’t feel like a hand on his back or even ropes around his wrists. His body feels hijacked. Hijacked by a _wrong_ gravity and slowly bending him down on his hands and knees toward the dead pigeon festering in the afternoon sun.

” _…then yyyou kneel…_ ”

It pushes his head down and moves his nose barely an inch away. His stomach bunches up in his throat. He feels a hot trickle of bile.

” _…and yyyou **eat**._ ”

He tries to stand back up, but it’s fucking hard, _much_ harder than it was in the store. His body is a thousand times heavier and he’s all but _sweating_ with the effort not to press his face into a mess of feathers and guts. It properly sinks in now. He has another person in his body. A person that could take over any time it wanted to and make him do whatever the hell it _wanted_. It’s far from the first time Eddie’s been in over his head…but this might be the most terrifying.

”…O-Okay.” He whispers, mouth barely moving in the hopes he won’t swallow the gallon of flies buzzing out of the bird’s chest. “Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay.”

” _Glad we understand each other_.”

With that, it lets him go. Eddie scrambles back and up to his feet – gagging into his shoulder -- and snatches his groceries. He squints down the street to the far corner. He’s back to normal, but he’s also missed the bus. He shudders again and wipes at his face and his shirt and his pants with his free hand, just to get the fucking _feel_ off.

”Hell.” He whispers, and flees the parking lot right when an employee calls out at him from the store’s front doors.

He has to jog back to the motel so his cold items won’t spoil. On the plus side he’s got more energy than he knows what to do with, thanks to the symbiote being up and about. On the downside he has absolutely no appetite for the rest of his _life_. He’s a sweating mess by the time he stumbles back up the steps and hands them their haul.

”Thanks, Eddie-“ Julie starts, only for her voice to pinch with disappointment when he turns around. “Wait, wait, you’re not gonna hang out? We made lemonade pops. Vodka.”

”Sorry, important call. I’ll catch you later, just save some for me.”

Eddie stomps up to the third floor and flings the door open. He washes the sweat of his face, then double-checks his e-mail. He sends a quick one to cheer on Mary, glances at his contacts, then looks over his resume. The creature thrums inside him all the while, a ball of life floating in his torso and far from quiet now.

” _III will wait for signs of the other._ ” It reassures, in a voice too husky and amused to be soothing. “ _Then III will be out like a light._ ”

Eddie munches on a wrinkled apple, sips a mug of watered down hot chocolate mix and stares moodily down at his screen. The drink is the closest he’ll get to a compromise. It seems to work, because every drink he takes a pleased ripple travels over his arms.

So far, so…right back where they started, more or less. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. A literal falling star. It was time to make the most of his _second_ second chance, no matter how much it was scaring the hell out of him.

* ~ - ~ *

“ _Seeking out more shiny little things? Yyyou are the most boorish host in the galaxy_.”

“You’re new to this planet, so let me give you a tip from someone who’s been here for nearly four decades…give it a goddamn rest already.”

It wasn’t exactly impressed he wanted to apply for a better job and start stringing his life back together, to start with, but Eddie imagines it’s not _particularly_ familiar with the messed up the job climate. It certainly has gotten enough strength to gripe at him non-stop, but the little tickle of orange every time it spoke made him wonder if it was truly grumpy right now or just trying to get a rise out of him. He’s finally starting to figure out its ‘color moods’, but it’s a crash course and one he certainly didn’t get the opportunity to cram for.

He does, however, learn he can cut it off mid-sentence by playing a song in his head.

” _Noisy, noisy, noisy things._ ” It growls when Eddie fixes his hair in the mirror and bobs his head to an earworm from a song heard on a café intercom. “ _Yyyour heads never stop ringing._ ”

Eddie’s going to apply for a part-time staff position at Fjord Media. It’s not a particularly big publication, focusing mostly on local events and culture…and that’s exactly _perfect_ for where he’s coming from. He missed a chance to go to the laundromat, though, and had to debate whether to wear his smelly decent ensemble or his clean plain ensemble. A t-shirt and jeans was passable, but passable wasn’t good enough to get him a job that could do more than just pay his monthly stay and cellphone. To his surprise the symbiote decides to not be a pain in his ass and offers him a solution.

“ _Create a new hide_.” It whispers. Eddie blinks.

“Wait, like…a new outfit? You could change this?” He holds up his shirt…then stops. It was in him and didn’t really need him to do things like that. “Like…all of it?”

“ _We can replicate any number of physical things. Only the truly astute could tell it’s not real_.” A violet sneer. “ _Not many on this planet. Show mmme_.”

Eddie has breathed water and sent full grown men flying into the ceiling. It’s far from the strangest thing and well worth a try. He closes his eyes and envisions something sharp, but casual. A dark leather jacket. A nice shirt underneath, maybe a trendy Par Amour t-shirt to suggest he’s not at the bottom rung of the working poor. Clean jeans. A pair of boots, maybe, or even a nicer pair of sneakers. His were developing holes he was having a harder and harder time ignoring. Eddie ducks into a bathroom stall, because he’s had about enough of people walking in at bad times-

-and before the door even shuts his stomach pitches strangely. The symbiote slips up out of his collar and stretches over him, shifting before his eyes from inky black to copies of denim and leather.

”Hell in a fucking basket.” Eddie breathes, stumbling back out of the stall and up to the mirror. He’s wearing the clothes that were in his head. “…Now _that’s_ what I’m talking about.”

A tiny, faint pop of pale red responds. The symbiote _might_ be flattered.

Eddie winks at his reflection and is abruptly reminded of his college days. He starts to preen. He wasn’t balding yet, but it’s a near thing, with his hairline starting to inch away more than he’d like. That’s nothing a little patdown can’t fix, he’s sure, and he reaches up to start fingercombing and pushing his bangs around.

“ _III can also make your hair grow…_ “

Eddie’s hair stretches and falls all the way down to his shoulders. He _cringes_. Like he suddenly had the urge to channel Jennifer Aniston. He hasn’t been blonde in years! He clutches it and tries to pull it off. It doesn’t move.

“No, no, make it go back the way it was!”

“ _This hair won’t help yyyou find more shiny things?_ ” It snickers. “ _A mate, perhaps?_ ”

“Make it go back now or I’m never eating chocolate again!”

It shrinks and returns to his usual coif. He gets a darker pop of red this time, which Eddie promptly flips off by flipping off his own reflection.

It’s a small local press -- small enough that even his ruined pedigree could look impressive -- but the meeting with the manager doesn’t go at all as planned. They’re clearly having a bad day and barely give him any courtesy, even when Eddie puts on his best face and offers to come back at a better time. They tell him they’ll give it a look, with no guarantee until three months later, and he leaves feeling like he’s won the lottery _and_ been slapped in the face. When Eddie walks back out he nearly runs headfirst into a crowd of people wearing crazy rainbow outfits. He tries to sidle past them, only to walk straight through them.

“What the _hell?_ ”

It’s not just psychedelic curtains being drawn over his environment or weird shifts in color now. They’re glittering, twisting, blobby shapes that _kind of_ look like people and kind of don’t. He thinks he remembers them…but from where? Back at the Laura House? He saw a lot of funky shit when he was there. Not just when he was suicidal, either. Were these things ghosts? He feels the symbiote shiver with frustration. It might just be the flood of questions pissing it off now.

“ _Yyyou live here._ ” It sounds almost wondering. “ _Yyyou should know more about yyyour home_.”

“Well, I’m thirty-eight and I don’t have a goddamn clue.” Eddie tilts his head and watches them coalesce like an oil puddle. “…Kind of pretty, though.”

” _Pretty._ ”

”Yeah, pretty. A word for when you like looking at things?” God. No wonder it was so miserable to talk to. “You and I are going to have to walk around the Golden Gate Park sometime.”

It’s funny even proposing the idea of a tour, much less doing it. The transit, then walk, then transit down to Mission District gives him a prime opportunity to catch the alien up to speed as well as reminisce on all the times that have passed him by. It’s depressing, but it’s productive.

”This used to be one of my favorite districts. It was the place to be when you wanted to be a party animal without being a loser.” Eddie tells it as he gets off his last stop, knowing the symbiote doesn’t really have any choice but to listen to him ramble. If he puts his fingers to his ear he can pretend he’s talking into a Bluetooth, anyway. “And this is…”

His nose suddenly wrinkles at the sight of a bronze statue by Dolores Park.

“… the O’Sullivan statue.” He finishes with a mutter. “A shitty statue of a shitty person, by shitty people, _for_ shitty people.”

The symbiote’s annoyed yellow darkens to an intrigued orange. Oh, he could rant about O’Sullivan all day long.

This prim fucker was yet another candidate running for mayor in the 415. Nothing special. While some politicians were preening about all the good they’d do for the LGBT+ community and others were rattling off appealing soundbites about creating jobs, though, this fuck’s biggest claim to fame was stomping what little progress San Francisco has made into the dirt and kill it for good. Not six months ago he was proposing bills that were barely more than well-meaning fluff, stated on paper to ‘enhance security’ and _explicitly_ designed to criminalize anything and everything not white-collar. Sex work, working immigrants, even veteran benefits were slated to take a hit. All in the name of a loving Christian god, of course.

He entertains the idea of taking a middle-finger selfie with the statue and sending it to Flash, but he’s pretty sure the guy still hates him for the other day. Eddie looks down at the violets he bought and tries to cheer the hell up already.

” _Would yyyou object to eating hhhim?_ ” It asks, words blending into a dark violet.

He can’t help but be reminded of those _really_ big mutts people kept chained up in their backyard. Didn’t matter they had a chain around their neck and a barbed wire fence standing between them and passerbys. There was always the possibility they’d be _just_ angry enough to break free and maul someone’s face.

”Eating, yes.” Eddie lowers his voice to a moody whisper. “Having him get hit by a _truck_ speeding an extra twenty on the highway, not so much.”

Again, he can’t really tell, but he thinks the symbiote grins.

A trio of young adults bounce out of the bistro’s front doors, chattering among themselves and ignoring the older woman shuffling barefoot up to passerbys and asking for change. Of course she’d want to meet here. Anne was never was all that crazy about ‘certain neighborhoods’. He’d brushed those comments off in the past – what with her having to walk the world as a woman – but the past few years have reminded him she has far more power than any of these degenerates, gender or no gender. It’s one hell of a slap to the teeth realizing his downhill spiral has given him so much perspective. He wonders how that would stop once he gets his shit together.

The door opens again and sends another flood of scents his way. Freshly cut deli meats, herb cheeses, bleach, sweat, soap, some weird sandalwood lotion…everything. Eddie’s sense of smell is _terrifyingly_ sharp, Jesus Christ. It actually makes his head hurt. He plugs his nose, only to get a very sharp sensation of dirt, sweat and old newsprint ink. Better than a thousand restaurants, he supposes. He’s goddamned _starving_ , but he spent all his spare change on the flowers. One combination in particular jerks him out of his funk. Versache perfume and mango deep-conditioner. A beautiful two-bedroom house in Hayes Valley. Late nights tapping into his keyboard, sliding into a cold bed at an odd hour, the morning pattern of quick kisses on the cheek and running out to work-

“Eddie? That you?”

He stands up stick-straight at the sight of Anne’s blonde hair.

”A-Annie!” He grins and waves. “Hey! It’s good to see you.” He pretends to sneeze and whispers, “You’ve been doing great so far. Don’t mess around, got it?”

” _…Understood, Eddie._ ”

It’s a simple enough response, but the churning red and purple that follows is anything but acquiescing. A democracy between a human and an alien. He’s heard of weirder things. …He actually _hasn’t_ , but he could use a good lie right about now, because he was just two inches away from eating a dead bird because that’s what _it_ wanted. Eddie combs his hair back a little and prepares for the hardest part of a hard day.

“ _Humans_.” It mutters in the very back of his brain as his ex-wife jogs across the street. “ _A mess of atoms, sweat and poor priorities_.”

* ~ - ~ *

“I want to make things right. Start over and build things up again.”

The violets are cheap, but they’re all he could afford without dipping into his (read: very small) emergency fund. He’s nervous Anne’s upbringing will sneer at the effort, but she accepts them without extra comment, kissing him on the cheek and asking about his health as they find somewhere to sit. They settle down on the outside porch by the wooden fence overlooking the street. She orders a spritzer, he orders ice water. Eddie skips the MLA and tells her he’s just saving up for another round of therapy and working out. Visiting the Center whenever he can. Working on his resume. All the good things, what few there were.

”Where have you been staying, Eddie?” He’s tried to steer the conversation to her twice now, but Anne was never easily distracted. “I haven’t been able to check up on you on Facebook. It’s like you dropped off the face of the earth.”

”Living near Tenderloin.” She’s already staring at him closely, searching for somewhere to start an argument, and he might as well try to sell the high points of his depressed neighborhood without going into great detail. “Just trying to save up some money until I can get back out to Bernal or something.”

”Bernal?” A confused frown. “Are you seeing someone?”

”Hm? No, no. It’s just a good place.” He shrugs and tries to keep his tone from being _too_ suggestive. “That could _change_ , though.”

The weather’s finally behaving a little, Anne looks goddamn _gorgeous_ , but it’s still hard to focus on the conversation. He feels like he’s being watched, because he _is_ , and he rubs at his knuckles and tries to keep the pleasant smile from falling off his face. It’s hard not to think about his arms turning into tentacles or that dead bird nearly being shoved down his throat. Anne watches him quietly all the while, the low breeze swaying her yellow hair around her neck.

”…Are you drunk right now?” She asks, suddenly. Eddie blinks.

”What? No! No, of course I’m not.”

Ah, hell. She’s probably noticed his twitching hands. It’s not withdrawal, not even close, it’s just this goddamn alien in his brain he can’t exactly sneak into the conversation. His good ol’ buddy that was responsible for even getting him to this point, thank God for fucking irony. Eddie needed to develop the good habit of counting his blessings ASAP, because he’s not sure how much more he can take. Anne’s disaffected cast, just beneath the surface of a conversation that’s remained casual at best, becomes shrewd.

”…You get pretty selfish about the details in your own life, Eddie. I don’t know what you want me to do here.” She dabs her straw in and out of her drink. “Have you actually changed or do you just want us back together to just go through the same motions again?”

“Oh, Annie. III wasn’t trying to be selfish. That’s not what III meant at all-” Eddie starts, then coughs and clears his throat. “Ah. Sorry. I was just saying…I think this is a good place to start moving forward again, right? Just laying things out nice and simple? I know I messed up. I really did. But I can-”

” _Do yyyou not feed hhher?_ ” The symbiote whispers in his ear. “ _Little wonder yyyou are so slow to adapt to the symbiosis_.”

Eddie grits his teeth and powers through.

”I _can_ offer you what you were missing and be a better man. I’m going through some stuff, sure, but I don’t need to dump it on you-“

” _Liar._ ”

Eddie clenches his fists beneath the table. These pauses are adding up, because Anne sighs and puts a chin in one glittering hand.

”…If this were an interview, Eddie, you wouldn’t get a callback.” She twirls the straw around her finger, then keeps talking just as he opens his mouth to answer. “You’re always keeping something from me. You tell me it’s just going to be a simple family dinner, then it ends up being one of the most awkward evenings I’ve ever had to sit through. You tell me you’re just stressed, but you have a drinking problem that affects literally everything. You tell me this is going to be a simple catch-up, but you’re _still_ not telling me what I need to know. What happened to your car, Eddie? Your Facebook accounts? Why did you drop off the map after the Aeronaut?” She holds his gaze. “You’re clearly hungry and you didn’t even order any food.”

Eddie is still, but his resolve is hunching down in his seat. Anne was a lawyer, through and through. It wasn’t just a way to make good money, for her. It was how she approached everything and everyone. It’s just them in the outside dining area right now – the old couple beside them is muttering non-stop and the servers are bustling like ants – but he feels like he’s sitting trial in court, at the mercy of a hard blue stare and a thousand questions with nothing but wrong answers. Before he can start airing out his jumble of responses she’s already gathered up her purse and pressed another kiss to his cheek.

”Thanks for the flowers, Eddie.”

He stares down at the violets twitching in the breeze on the table as she heads back to her car, then mumbles a negative when a waiter walks by and asks if he’d like to order anything.

* ~ - ~ *

A long, hard, sweaty day of failure. If there’s a punchline to this joke, Eddie completely missed it.

“Sorry, no crazy antics today.” He mutters as he passes by Sofía and her standard issue glare. “Have a nice night.”

Eddie shuts the door…then sighs and and hits his back against it. God, he misses having… _things_. He’d even take a stupid overpriced pack of doilies over the depressing blandness and cheap attempts at filling in the clutter. He takes a deep draft of water from his bottle, then dumps the rest on his face. They’re both out of energy. The symbiote spares no time reminding it they could have more, but it’s still recovering and not at 100%. That’s fine. He can’t even imagine chugging five hundred energy drinks and taking an ice bath would perk him back up right now.

“ _Why do yyyou do things that yyyou don’t want to do?_ ” It asks when it reverts his outfit back to his sweaty clothes. Eddie rolls them off and goes to stand beneath the shower for a minute to rinse off the rest of the day.

“Because I have to.”

“ _Why?_ ”

Christ _alive_ , it was like having a five-year old in his brain. The only thing the alien did more than insult him or suggest acts of extreme violence was ask a thousand questions. That, and nearly make him eat dead birds. Eddie groans and shivers. The sooner he forgot about that, the better.

“…I can’t believe you almost made me eat a fucking carcass.” Even getting angry is tiring. The symbiote doesn’t snort, but he feels something similar in its dark yellow.

“ _III can devour anything. YYYou would be fine. At least, in the least approximation of yyyour word._ ”

“Just because yyyyyou can-“ He drawls, so angry he’s crossing the line into childish sarcasm. “Doesn’t mean you should!” He wipes his hands off on his jeans, desperate to get the memory off. “Hot chocolate mix and dead pigeons. Oh, eat your _heart_ out, Instagram foodie culture.”

He knocks out a few articles on the mysterious light and all its conspiracy theories, then considers it a day well failed. He supposes he should credit the symbiote with another financial blessing, too, but he’s not in the giving mood. It’s only that which makes him realize the symbiote has gone quiet again, the first it’s really shut the fuck up all day. It might be resting after they ran all over town on a hot day. …He’ll have to drink quickly, then.

Eddie pulls out the remainder of his emergency stash and cracks one open. Warm beer is gross, but being sober is worse, and before he knows it he’s had two and the room is starting to sway the right way. Then he guzzles the two half-off beers he nabbed at the store, but he’ll need another one or two to truly black out and forget about it all. He takes a few minutes to tie on his shoes, then stumbles outside and heads downstairs. Darryl isn’t hanging out with Julie and Iris now, but his door is open at a crack to cool off. Eddie nudges it open and peers in.

“Hey, hey, Dare, hey.” He calls when he spots his pin-covered cap. “How’re you, man?”

”Charles? That you?” He’s in the kitchen working on something. He looks over his shoulder and stares. “… _Shit_ , man. You good?”

”Yeah…yeah, can you, uh, set me up…just one or two…” Fuck, it’s a little hard to stand up straight. He attempts to lean into the doorjamb and nearly falls right in. “Woah, woah. Sorry. Shit, sorry.”

“Ha, it’s almost been one whole week, huh?” Darryl shakes his head slowly, walking up and patting his shoulder. “Phew, Charles. How many you got in you this time?”

”Just a few, then I, uh…I ran out, ‘cause I drank ‘em, you know…beer always goin’ places…graduating from college, they grow up so fast…” Eddie laughs and hiccups. “’s just two. Three or two. Don’t start callin’ me a lightweight. ‘s not nice.”

”Ain’t callin’ you that. That just ain’t three or two.” Darryl takes his shoulder and tugs him inside. “I got some extra, just sit down. You gotta be careful, man. You’ll hit your head going down those stairs.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know, I’m cutting back, I really am, I just…’s hard day…” Eddie rubs his face and slumps sideways onto his bed. Dare’s place is dirtier than his, but it’s got _way_ more things. That’s nice. Things were good. “Hard ‘n hot, Dares ‘n Deets…”

“Ha, I hear you, man. You’re all right. Just hang tight for a sec. I got noodles on the stove right now.”

He wants to say something about noodles being nothing but salt and starch, but he gets distracted by the ceiling fan. Eddie’s head lolls back against the couch and watches it twirl. It’s like he’s underwater again. His skin is even shimmering, his dark veins churning and curling just beneath the surface, like…worms. Whew. He must be really, very, seriously drunk, because that’s not normal and kind of weird. Arms didn’t do that. He still wants another beer, though. It’d just be rude to go back on his request after interrupting Darryl’s noodle quest. Seriously, though. Noodles needed something in them or it was like feeding a body styrofoam.

”What’d you get up to today?” Darryl asks him. Eddie presses his face into his pillow and mumbles.

”Uh, I, ah, saw my…my ex-wife and she still hates me. Told me I’m selfish and asked me if I’m drunk, I _wasn’t_ , I just got an alien in my brain, but she just kept asking and asking and asking. Got her flowers, but I should’ve just cut out my…my heart and slapped it on the table, like that.” He smacks his thigh for emphasis. Darryl clucks his tongue.

”Well, at least she didn’t say she wants to kill you. Glass half full, huh?”

”I don’t wear glasses.” Eddie corrects, rubbing his hair. “Oh, right, I also almost ate a dead bird. I didn’t, Dare. I _almost_ did, but I didn’t. Don’t ever eat dead birds. Promise me you fucking won’t.”

”You’re a little nuts, you know that?” Eddie blinks when he feels the man’s locs tickle his arms, then again when something cold nudges into his hands. “I got your okay juice right here. Do me a favor, though? You hand some of these out once you’re done throwing all that back up.”

“’Course, ‘course, thanks, man, I mean it.” Eddie mumbles happily, taking the business cards and doing his best not to drop them. He drops them, anyway, and Darryl grabs them again and sticks them in his back pocket. “Whoops. Sorry. I owe you, Dare, for real.”

Darryl walks him back to his hotel room and helps him unlock his door, because he’s nice like that, and Eddie tells him he has great hair before plunking back down on his mattress and chugging away. He could’ve sworn Darryl gave him three cans, but he’s only got two. He’ll solve that mystery later.

“… _Mooore liiiquid_.” Its voice is deep as ever, but slowed down, like an old record, and it’s funny as hell. “ _Yyyou’re aaaddiiicted_.”

“Mm. Ha ha. Not addicted. Depressed.” Eddie mutters, taking another swig and smacking his lips in satisfaction. Darryl always picked the best dark beers. “’s a different. Difference.”

“ _Yyyouuu…sss…_ ” It slurs. “ _…sssfffoolish thiiing, yyyou will drrrown us bothhh…_ ”

Eddie tosses his head back in a laugh. The room’s all colorful again and spinning like he’s in a washing machine. It should make him sick, but it’s fucking fun. He never thought revenge would be this funny.

“Aw, look at that, No Name, I makin’ you drunk, too?”

Time to top it off after giving him so much to celebrate today. Eddie reaches up, then frowns at his empty can. He pokes at the two on the bed and blinks as his vision sways pink and blue and yellow.

Mm, that’s right. He dropped the last beer by the door. It’s so _far_ , though, and he feels so heavy and warm and _happy_. It’d be so nice if he could just…snatch it from where he is. Like Matilda or some shit. Eddie rolls onto his stomach and reaches out an arm. It stretches out like a morbid sticky hand toy, all the way across his tiny room and down the hall near the door. He pokes at it – so _neat_ \-- then plucks the can off the carpet. His arm slithers back, shifts from stretchy oil to flesh, and he grins down at his catch.

“…Nice.”

He’s asleep before he hits the bottom of the can.

Endless hills. Endless sidewalks. He walks more than he ever did. Exercise and saving money on bus fare. He’s tired. He just wants to go home and lay down. San Francisco buildings pick themselves up like long dresses, revealing slender, pale legs ending in pointed heeled shoes, and daintily move out of his way as he stumbles back to The Gulf. He has to swim through a pool where the parking lot used to be, but it’s cool and sweet and smells like a mango smoothie. He passes by a dead body bobbing in the water – poor fuck – and reaches the residences completely dry.

It’s his motel. The Gulf, filled with hundreds of stories and thousands of doors. He marvels at it. The rows and rows and rows of levels that tower up toward the sky, ending somewhere up high in a little rectangular pocket of the stars. He wonders how Julie and Iris are doing. He thinks he can see them somewhere on the fiftieth floor – or was it the sixtieth – throwing their laundry across to their neighbors across the way. Hopefully he could get to his room before passing out. Eddie walks up the staircase and begins the long trek upward. The carpet is a mess – it keeps bunching up beneath his feet like an old lady’s wenis and makes it hard to walk in a straight line – but that’s The Gulf. It was always like that.

Eddie reaches over to open a door-

“ _ **Stay out!**_ ”

He yanks his hand back. ….Time to try another door, then. Eddie shuffles down the hall and leans into grab another – ah, that’s his room -- only to pause at the sound of a familiar voice. Why is someone in his place? He didn’t invite anyone. If he _did_ Deborah would crawl up his asshole and light his guts on fire. He leans in to listen better. It’s high-pitched. A kid. A _kid?_ He pushes his ear against the door…

“ _Stop_ , Eddie! Stop it, give it _back!_ ”

His heart stops. Eddie takes a slow step back. Another kid -- a tween, maybe -- responds.

“ _You suck at it, anyway. They don’t even grow. Look. Stupid_.”

He turns and walks down the opposite end of the hall, hands slapped firm over his ears. He shuts his eyes tight, as tight as they can _go_ , but for some reason he can still see his feet and the blood red carpet beneath his feet, still see himself fleeing like a complete coward, and the voices get louder-

“ _Stop! No, stop it! Mom! Eddie is stepping on my flowers-_ “

Another door. He’ll find another door to take him in and keep him warm. He reaches out to one five doors over and-

” _What have you done today, Charles?_ ” Cigar smoke seeps out through the cracks with each word. “ _What do you do except give me more messes to clean up?_ ”

Eddie’s hand trembles over the doorknob.

”I met Anne. I’m going to make things right.” He whispers back. “I applied for a job. I’m doing my _best_ , okay? I’m trying. I’m trying my best.”

” _Trying is what cowards say when they’re lazy. What the hell am I supposed to do with you, Charles?_ ”

”Yeah, well, it’s more than _you ever did!_ ” Eddie screams, slamming a fist on the door…then stumbling back when it bangs back at him.

” _It’s your fault she’s dead!_ ” The door rattles, gray fumes billowing out and spreading everywhere. “ _Nobody fucking asked for you, did they?_ ”

He can’t take any more of this. One door is open all the way down the hall. Just a crack, but it’s the only one that will take him. He’s not asking for a lot. He just wants a warm bed and some peace. That’s all. That’s _it_. He reaches out to open it and-

-Eddie’s eyes snap open.

For the first time in a while he couldn’t be happier to be awake. It’s pitch black out. Evening’s long past. He mutters a Catholic-friendly curse under his breath. He didn’t drink enough beer to pass out throughout the night. That, or he _did_ and his tolerance was coming back to bite him in the ass. Now he was up at an unholy hour with a monster headache starting behind his eyes.

” _Hello, Eddie._ ” A hoarse hiss starts up in the dark. “ _Enjoy yyyour frothing, sloshing nightmares?_ ”

”Depends on your definition of enjoyment.” He groans. Fuck, he’s sweaty all over again. “You see any of that shit? That dream would make one hell of a movie.”

“ _Yyyou wandered and ran and swam and whined and cried. A smaller yyyou was spitting venom left and right to an other. Human heads are fascinating messes_.”

”Ah…yeah. About that.” He rubs his mouth when his stomach lurches threateningly. “Mm. I wasn’t…all that nice to her growing up.”

“ _Ah, so pulling hhher hair and putting dirt in hhher food wasn’t a creature custom_.”

“You…you saw _all_ of that?” He hunches against his pillow and crushes his eyes shut. “…Hell. What else did you see?”

“ _A broken fence. A destroyed garden. A yard. A box of cameras. Cigars_.” It senses his question before he even speaks. “ _III can connect yyyour words to pictures, but these physical things of yyyours mean little to mmme_.”

“…Right. Never knew where Dad put that box.” Eddie mumbles. “One of my favorite things growing up.” He suddenly feels very sick and very lonely. “Did you have a good childhood, goopy? Or…a childhood at all?”

“ _Yyyou grow, then wither. Like the T-T-Tempestuous, like the braided bestiary. We grow, and grow, and grow_.” He has no idea what it’s talking about, but it doesn’t bother to elaborate. “ _Explain the blue_.”

It’s still asking about Mary. Mary in his dream. Eddie picks at a callous on his palm. He’s already prayed more times than he can count. Might as well confess to his personal demon, too. He holds his head and tries to rub some of the growing ache back.

“Not much to explain. You heard me talking to her today. She’s my sister. Half-sister, if we’re getting technical. Different mothers.” He doesn’t think the symbiote would care much about that, but it’s quiet, and somehow he can tell it’s listening closely. “I was…kind of a brat. Really a brat.” He sighs. “Don’t really need to describe that, either, not when you saw my shitty actions and my shitty father.”

” _Yyyou survived_.”

Eddie pauses.

”Survived? What? No. No, that’s not it at all.” He scoffs. “Just wanted that jackass to just admit I did something right for once. See, dreams are just a bunch of bullshit, okay. You were right about our brains being messy nonsense.” The symbiote is quiet. Eddie rolls onto his back to a cooler area of the bed and waits to hear something snide.

“ _Yyyou’re addicted to hhhim, too_.”

“To who?”

“ _Yyyour progenitor_.”

“What…the fuck?” He instinctively back rolls over, even though there’s no one to face in the bed beside him. “Addicted to my Dad? The fuck are you talking about? I can’t stand that bastard. Don’t you see that color in my brain? A hateful…blue or whatever?”

“ _Hate is meaning. Hate is purpose_.” Its laugh echoes like a rusty hinge. “ _III know hate. A sumptuous red, like the statue of yyyour kin. This is another shade_.”

“Another shade…” He mutters, holding his stomach and grimacing at a nauseating pang. “Yeah, okay, whatever. Fuck.”

Eddie stumbles off the mattress and rushes to the bathroom, flipping up the lid and retching. The symbiote mutters something, but he can’t make out what it is over the splashing in the bowl. After a series of repetitions he slumps and hugs the seat for what feels like forever and a day, trying and failing to blink the sweat out of his eyes.

”God, fucking _fuck_. You said you’d make the pain go away and here I am-“ He lurches forward again, coughing dryly, but he’s got nothing left in him. “- _fucking_ here, here like I’ve always been, I don’t do shit right-“ He tries to swallow and coughs _that_ up, too, stomach scrunching up like a fist. “Oh, fuck-“

” _Yyyou leak so much_.”

“Could leak less if you cured this hangover?” He tries, then grimaces when it hisses.

“ _Constantly stitching yyyour sorry state back together saps mmmy energy. A symbiosis is a partnership, yyyou **leech**_.”

“I…um.” Eddie’s forehead sinks onto the rim of the seat. “I’m…I’m sorry. I’m not trying to use you…I’m not, I’m…I just…”

It’s hard to think, much less talk, around the buzzing in his head. He’s…not sure how long he’s been here. It’s probably three or four in the morning now. Eddie sniffs and wipes at his mouth, then his nose, feeling like he’s come down with a fever with the abruptness of an April shower. He lays his cheek on the blissfully cool toilet seat cover and stares at nothing as the bathroom wobbles.

A slow, dark blue fills him up from head to toe. He doesn’t remember seeing this color from the alien. Maybe some of it is his.

“ _…Many have made yyyou hurt. Yyyou seep like a wound trying to shut_.” It whispers. “ _Hurt ttthem_.”

“…The hell is your damage?” He mumbles, blinking slowly and switching to his other cheek. “…I don’t want to hurt people. Make them think twice, sure. People that make it…that make it so hard for others to get on their feet again…fuckers like O’Sullivan.” His stomach clutches again. “Oh, God, that hurts.”

” _Yyyour day is over_.” It muses, the quietest he’s heard it since it crawled up to him at the Laura House. “ _…and yyyou’re still here_.”

Eddie pushes himself from the toilet with a shaky arm and gropes for the faucet. That’s true, he supposes. In spite of it all, in spite of his father’s best efforts and the 415’s best efforts and even _his_ best efforts, he was…still here. Still here, despite so many doing their best to nudge him off the face of the earth and call it a day. A rinse of cold water gets some of the bad taste out of his mouth. He gargles, spits…

…and, just like that, he gets an idea.

* ~ - ~ *

“You already gave me one of these, remember?”

“Give it to a friend. That’s all I ask.”

Jeanne chuckles helplessly and pushes it into her pocket. He tells her she’s a doll and ensures it’ll be worth her while. Another day, another dime. He always got one, but rarely got the other. That would change, soon enough. ' _Give 'er time_ ,' his ma always said, whether they were a 'im or a 'er or a them. ' _She'll come 'round_.'

Darryl ghosts past cafes and repair shops and the occasional college, handing out his seventieth business card for the day. Lucky number seventy. The morning’s been good to him. He’ll treat himself to a drip coffee and a bagel for brunch. He counts them all, because any one of them could land him what he needs, and he appreciates them all. Even the ones that ended up in a filthy puddle somewhere. Shaking people's hands is his preferred method, but some people don't like to be touched, so he’s going to change tactics. Learn their name and remember it for later. The pocket notebook Eddie already has a few pages of names, dates and places, just in case he runs into that same person again a year later in a suit and tie.

It’s just good business sense.

His drifting eventually gets him near Dolores Park. A lot of families and tourists out. Still. At least a few of them might need a haircut. He’s pulling out the next stack for lucky number seventy-one when he hears someone gasp nearby.

" _Fuck_ , check this out…"

Darryl looks up…and his cards fall and scatter right out of his hands all over the ground. It's that new O’Sullivan statue.

_Twisted into a goddamn pretzel._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We see Eddie testing out his newfound powers by hanging out at the bottom of the motel pool and breathing in water as easily as a fish. Unfortunately, the symbiote has a tendency to disappear out of nowhere and leave him stranded. He’s sure he’s stuck for the rest of the day, but a little extra egging has his body changing in time to resurface and make one of the regular tenants suspicious. The motel manager has a talk with him about his shaky reputation and how he’s _very_ close to being kicked out if he doesn’t start curbing rumors about his odd behavior.
> 
> It’s not all bad. Eddie is seen having a friendly relationship with multiple tenants, including Darryl, last seen in chapter four approaching Miles and Aaron about his barber shop business. He goes on a grocery run for two of his neighbors, Julie and Iris, and there Mary calls him about his suspended bank account. They vent to each other, with her eventually asking if Eddie’s going to meet up with the family the following month when Claire gets out of the hospital. The symbiote decides then and there to wake up again and start taking charge.
> 
> The alien isn’t happy about its host’s poor lifestyle choices. Eddie isn’t happy about its tendency to override his body and control him like a puppet, either. They come to a shaky agreement at the grocery store, though not without the symbiote stressing a final stipulation: if it feels, under _any_ circumstance, it or Eddie is in danger it won’t hesitate to take over. It stresses this point by pushing him close to the carcass of a dead pigeon, stating it could make him eat it if it wanted.
> 
> Eddie applies for a job at a small news outlet and gives the symbiote a brief virtual tour of San Francisco. He tops off his day by meeting with his ex-wife Anne Weying in an attempt to start rekindling their relationship, but it’s just one of many things that doesn’t go to plan.
> 
> Depressed and despondent after a day where little has gone right, he binge drinks in what is implied to be _far_ from the first time and falls into a drunken coma. He dreams of a massive motel that’s hundreds of stories high, lifting all the way up to the stars, and tries to find a door that will take him in and shelter him. He tries to enter one, only to have the symbiote’s voice demand he leave. Another has what sounds like a fight between two children. Yet another is the voice of his father, reprimanding him for all his mistakes. He wakes up in time to admit to the symbiote about bullying his half-sister, Mary, when he was a kid…then vomits himself sick in the bathroom.
> 
> He and the symbiote discuss these dreams and end up reaching a strange, yet welcome, understanding. They decide to have a little fun with the newly-erected statue of a politician running for mayor, leading to a rather shocked response from Darryl the next morning…
> 
> \--
> 
> Phew, this chapter went through a _lot_ of revising. My original goal was to upload a new chapter every one to two weeks, give or take, but I couldn’t in good conscience upload this one until it was more legible than the _very_ disorganized and messy first few drafts. While I love writing slice-of-life, it can sometimes pinch me by the nose and lead me astray. …Okay, often. Let's just say a new Venom trailer coming out is a very nice kick in my ass.
> 
>  
> 
> …I also got totally clotheslined by a new fandom that’s barely over two months old, which certainly didn’t help!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> Build-up is just about done. This journey is going to start twisting and turning...


	6. It's Exactly What You Think, In A Certain Way, Maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for a public panic attack, sexist language, discussions of incarceration and mentions of anti-black microaggressions.
> 
> Chapter Song -- "Reborn (Kids See Ghosts)" by Kid Cudi ft. Kanye West

 

” _it kinda looks like a ferero rochere wrapper. rocher? how the fuck do i spell this_ ”, Got_The_Gank, 8:44 a.m.

” _seriously!!! miles!!! ur city is totally crazy!! comets and destroyed government property, everything cool is happening there_ ”, SilkySmoothPotatoes, 8:45 a.m.

” _right, you’d think all that stuff would be happening in yours. you really can’t believe what you see in the movies lol_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 8:45 a.m.

Maybe someday they’d start talking about Spongebob memes or vaporwave remixes again, but it’s not going to be today. Or tomorrow. Or probably the next three weeks. The statue of some new San Francisco mayor has been slathered all over the news (and even his favorite forums), leaving him no choice but to talk about it. Normally he tried not to give a crap about politics (tried being the key word), but this was different because of one teeny-tiny itty-bitty detail: the fifteen-foot tall statue got bunched up like it was made out of _aluminum foil_. A small part of him is wondering if there are other people with powers closer to home. People who understand what he’s going through.

Miles scrolls through the latest photos and skims for funny comments in an attempt to kill the gnawing in his gut. A not-so-small part of him is terrified that the statue is just an appetizer on the buffet of scary shit happening right next door.

” _you know how the pacific northwest is always talkin about bigfoot and stuff, maybe whatever did this is gonna be the san Francisco chupacabra >8B_”, SilkySmoothPotatoes, 9:10 a.m.

” _its definitely a monster, how did no cameras catch it, that or its something the government is in on. wait maybe this is a big social experiment_ ”, Got_The_Gank, 9:12 a.m.

” _Guys, remember Paranoia Agent? Remember how most of the anime is just trying to figure out of Lil Slugger is real or just a big folk tale people make up to escape their problems?_ ”, MulletHell, 9:14 a.m.

” _except nobody technically saw lil slugger. everyone can see the fucked up statue lmao_ ”, Got_The_Gank, 9:14 a.m.

” _You KNOW what I mean. I just mean our theories are probably gonna be way more interesting than the real thing._ ”

” _Miles, you’re being weirdly reticent about this whole thing._ ”

” _That or you’re just used to this by now and think we’re being dorks._ ”, MulletHell, 9:18 a.m.

Miles looks at the tangled ball of webbing in his lap he’s been unraveling and scrunching and cats cradling for the past hour. No. That wasn’t even close. Playing it cool is the just only way he can keep himself from suddenly coming clean about his _entire_ life. His spidey-sense has been going extra crazy lately and he woke up sweating in the middle of the night just yesterday only to find out about _this_. The eventual goal to explain what happened to him in New York to the people he cares about seems more and more an idle daydream with each new day.

” _you’re definitely all dorks_ ”

” _all this weird shit going on in my city and I get comments about old people candy and anime_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 9:34 a.m.

He pulls another thread out of his inner wrist and adds it to the bunch, watching the chat explode into a debate about what constitutes old people candy and, of course, which one tastes the best. He likes to use his webbing as impromptu string – when nobody’s around to see, of course – but he also likes to get it out because his body feels… _funny_ if he doesn’t. Like a muscle that really needs to be stretched or a super wiggly loose tooth that needs to be yanked. It’s not the only little detail that’s snuck into his life and become part of his daily routine, but it’s easily the messiest. If he tries to ignore his new needs his body will stress out and go out of whack. He gets jittery. Stir-crazy.

Miles sets down the webbing, then rubs his fingertips and thumbs together and watches the shudder of bright blue that sparks off his skin. That full-body ‘off-ness’ was how he found out he could even generate electrical charges from his _hands_.

” _gotta go. i better get some answers on this mystery when i get back._ ”, PenultimateLoser, 9:54 a.m.

” _you already got an answer. old people candy tastes like shit so Ferrari Rockafeller doesnt count._ ”, Got_The_Gank, 9:54 a.m.

He idly wonders if this webbing business will get worse once he’s done with puberty as he shrugs on his retro Pikachu sweatshirt and slips into his weekend vans. He’s looking forward to meeting up with Mr. Brock for their reunion day in a few hours (or a _better_ reunion day, anyway) at the local arcade, which means he needs to go _full_ nerd. Miles double-checks his hair and considers taking a selfie he’ll never upload online. Maybe it’s his anxiety talking (it’s always his anxiety talking), but matching up with the day just _feels_ right.

”It’s a good thing this stuff evaporates after a few hours or I’d be giving the garbage collectors heart attacks.” Miles mutters as he plops the sticky webbing into his trash bin before heading downstairs. “’Silly string? Rope? Why is it sticking to my skin, ew, get it off, get it off.’”

It’s a little quieter than usual, both inside and out. Bayview never felt like it ever turned off. Bernal, on the other hand, has that sort of sunny-suburbia feel without actually being all _that_ suburbia-y. Miles considers he might need to throw out some of these little pockets of nostalgia he keeps picking up, too, as he gathers up all the trash in the house (of which there’s twice as much as usual thanks to Aaron). He strolls past Rio in the kitchen. She’s still in her pajamas and in the middle of a call she clearly doesn’t want to be doing.

”Hey, babe. Wait, wait, wait, slow down. Who you trying to impress?” She covers the receiver with one hand and eyes the load he’s carrying. Miles smiles and lifts up the bulging bags with ease. “Uh-huh. You _sure_ you got all that?”

”Sure I do. I’m a growing boy, Mom, come on.”

”Right, right. Just don’t sprain a muscle.” She snorts as she turns back to her conversation, still staring at him with a disbelief that makes perfect sense for anyone without his super-strength.

He doesn’t mind his new neighborhood, really. Sure, it’s a little too calm – that always makes him think something’s going to happen – but it’s pretty and clean without seeming fake. No, whatever has his skin suddenly prickling into a million little needles is much, _much_ further beyond the horizon. Miles feels himself moving with an almost foreign instinct, craning his neck and looking past the physical world to the faint shimmers of color and _other_ all bunched up beyond the clutter of Bernal houses where downtown spreads out in a midday glitter. He doesn’t know what’s worse: this feeling of _wrong_ where he can’t completely see or this growing animal instinct that loves to make him react on a whim.

He’s had these powers for three years now. This isn’t normal weirdness or the usual ghosts he comes across when he activates his powers. Even though he was just playing with his webbing inside he’s _sure_ of it. This is looks like a cross between a heat shimmer and colorful fog. Every time he blinks it seems to disappear…then gathers right back up, all the way in the distance above the tallest buildings, ebbing and fading like cold breath. Like it’s… _alive_. He slams down the trash lid with a shaking hand, turns around and makes a beeline for the garage.

Nope. One terrifying thing at a time.

When he walks inside it smells not like dust and dirt, but lemon house cleaner and coffee. More than that, though. It already has a different _feel_ to it. Not just the new music equipment or the old mattress shoved in the far corner, but a sense of being…occupied. Even before he stumbled on his powers he’s always been sensitive to spaces he should and shouldn’t be in. Little Miles would linger in doorways when being invited over to people’s houses or turn and straight-up walk the other way when he hit a block that ‘felt’ off. The garage was once just a place to store the car and a bunch of junk (a luxury compared to their old place). Now it was…something brand new, without actually _being_ brand new.

”Yo, Miles. You’re up early.”

”It’s the weekend. Gotta make the most of it.”

His uncle huffs agreement and goes back to tinkering with his keyboard. Weird displacement aside, it kind of looks better, really. Sometime over the past day Aaron bought a brown velvet sofa with a little matching rug in the corner. There are light strings on the ceiling now and some old photomanipulation portraits of popular musicians on the walls. Bob Marley, The Supremes, Cab Calloway and a few Miles doesn’t recognize but look old-school. He also went through a _huge_ cleaning spree. Got rid of the cobwebs, swept up the junk they’ve been too tired to throw out. It almost looks like a place someone would want to be in. The cobwebs were kind of nice though.

…For _some_ reason.

’ _Oh, is that what we’re doing, spider-powers?_ ’ Miles thinks as he finds himself a foot-by-foot chunk of floor he can call his own. ‘ _You’re making me like cobwebs, too?_ ’

”Whaddya think?”

Aaron is in a sports hoodie and his usual Timberlands, looking crazy tired and still doggedly cleaning out the area beneath his keyboard. He was probably up all night working on this. Miles tried not to pay too much attention to what he was doing, if he could help it, but now he’s kind of wishing he did.

”Looks nice. Really nice.” Aaron grins, eyes still focused on his task, but clearly pleased. ”How’s the, um…job hunt going?”

Among adults this is the equivalent of talking about the weather, which means it probably won’t come off as _too_ passive-aggressive. Still…it might’ve been best to segue into it a little, because his uncle’s thick brows hunker down over his eyes.

”Eh. It’s going. I told you about Pretty Slope already, right?” Those brows shoot right back up when Miles doesn’t say anything. Once he gets his nod he looks back at his work. “Yeah, spoke with the manager a few days back. Just told him I got out of jail for theft. Wanted to be straight-up. Sometimes that works, sometimes that don’t. He actually seemed to like it. Said everyone deserves a second-chance, but no guarantee, since it's a...you know...criminal record. The store is the kinda place inventory shrink would stand out immediately, anyway, since they have a lot of classics and whatnot. Now, I don’t like the idea that any customer with sticky fingers is probably gonna be blamed on _me_ first, but I’ll be vigilant.” He balls up his rag in one fist and leans onto his feet, stretching out a pop in his back. “Mmph. If I get it, of course. Still up in the air.”

”That store’s sweet.” Miles wants to test out the sofa, but he can’t get too cozy. It looks so _soft_ , though. A good nap-couch for warm summer nights. “It’s like a corner store museum.”

”Yeah. It’s the shit. Be honest, I don’t know how much I could stand baggin’ other folk’s groceries eight hours a day or scrubbin’ toilets. At least _there_ I can talk about music. Meet cool people while selling radios or whatever. Could even promote my own stuff without taking away precious business time or whatever the fuck they wanna call it.” Aaron pokes a few notes into the keyboard. It’s on low volume, though it sounds perfectly loud to Miles. “Ain’t all sunshine, though. It’s niche, which means they can’t do full-time. No benefits, less job security.”

Miles drifts a little closer, feeling that stupid little kid urge to start slamming a whatever melody onto the keys. This is a good point to offer a helping hand. Mom told him to try and get along with his uncle, so that’s what he’s going to do.

”…I could help you out.” He starts, quietly. Aaron scoffs immediately.

”That ain’t your job.” He reaches over and turns his keyboard off. “Come on. I’m grown. I can find a shitty part-time that pays me in cash and discounts, _you_ can focus on your studies and big bright future.”

Future. Right. That nebulous thing anxiety was always making him stare at that still felt like something he could never have. Miles looks around the garage again. Aaron nods when his eyes settle on the new sofa and rug again.

”Yeah, got that little beauty on sale. Not everyone wants to stand and watch their live music. Figure they can lay on that-“ He nods at the sofa. “-or lay on that.” He bobs his head at the rug. “Or that.” He jerks a chin at the lone antique chair he probably swiped from some yard sale, currently holding a half-empty box of more light strings. “Still need a few more places to sit. Expecting the average turnout to have twenty to thirty people at a time. Can’t be lawn chairs, though. Cozy stuff, like a beanbag chair or something.”

Miles blinks.

”Oh. I have an old one you can use.” He fiddles with the hem of his sweatshirt. “If…you want.”

”Yeah?” He turns back to him slowly, like his words haven’t sunk in all the way. “Where?”

”In my closet. It was a, um, housewarming gift from Oscar and Sammy when I moved back.” Which is exactly why he hasn’t used it, but there’s no need to bring that up.

His uncle stares at him, probably surprised at the gesture of goodwill. It’s nothing personal. Aaron in a good mood is _slightly_ better than Aaron in a bad mood. Miles still can’t figure out if he likes the idea of him trying live music on the weekends. He’s good -- really good, if he was being honest -- but he can’t get too _used_ to it. It’s too much like acceptance. Too much like when things hadn’t gone entirely to shit and his biggest problem was changing his route so he wouldn’t be followed home from school or shuffling through the dollar store and practicing for ‘mall outlets’ with the least noisy items in his pockets. Stuff that seemed so hard at the time he’s now _begging_ to come back.

”That’s…great. Yeah. I’d appreciate that, Miles.” Aaron responds, slowly revealing his bright, even smile. “Yeah, that’d pad this out _real_ nice. Give this place some style, too. You know hipsters love that recently renovated look where nothing really fits together but all looks like it got spat out by the 80’s. In fact, you mind grabbin’ that now? It’ll be one less thing off my list.”

”Sure.” For once his uncle’s timing is legit. He needs to start moving. “I’ll be right back.”

He forgot to tell him the beanbag chair is Chewbacca’s head, but he’ll just say that’s part of the ‘retro’ vibe. Miles sticks a hand on the side of the closet door and yanks himself up to reach into the top shelf and tug down the beanbag. He hops back onto his feet, then solemnly squishes it in his hands and makes Chewbacca scowl. Just… _touching_ it makes him feel out-of-sync with reality. Oscar and Sammy tried so hard to cheer him up after Peter and Michelle ‘mysteriously’ disappeared, but they also didn’t really know what to do with him. He didn’t blame them then and he doesn’t blame them now.

Miles presses his face against Chewbacca’s nose. …He _still_ doesn’t know what to do with himself.

”Aaron? You’re kidding me…new furniture? What’s this? Is this speaker new, too?”

”Not new, Ri, they’re _used_. I went cheapest I could find.”

”That’s not my _point_.”

They’re not talking all that loudly, but they don’t need to. There’s nothing he can’t hear in or around the house. The pitch of Rio’s voice goes right to the pit of his stomach immediately: she’s really upset. Miles starts to dig through his mental health inventory as he tip-toes back downstairs.

”Come off it, you’re just takin’ the piss out on me because your manager called you on a weekend.“

”No, I’m cracking down on the rules in my house. Aaron, I _told_ you we need to budget. I don’t have the dimes to have you go out on shopping sprees-“

”This is to help us make money since nobody will fuckin’ _hire_ me-“

His mom and uncle have three levels of fighting. They have tiny spats that don’t last the day or long talks on the living room couch that usually end with one of them hugging the other. It’s fast becoming the worst of the bunch: talking _so_ fast and _so_ loud it’s like listening to two dogs barking.

”No, if you want to make money you need to actually _save_ some once in a while-”

”You think I’m just being _spendy?_ Tch. When’d you get so fuckin’ bougie, huh? Was it when you got a full-time with benefits or when you packed bags to Bernal? Why the hell didn’t y’all just stay in Bayview-”

”Uh-uh. Don’t. It was a decision for me and Miles. There was nothing but pain and frustration in that shitty apartment and we needed to be rid of it, the whole place. He needed another neighborhood. I needed space. Save the attitude. I _worked_ for this-”

”Oh, yeah, that’s what they _all_ say, they work for it when they just got let off easy-“

”Don’t you dare act like you’re the biggest victim in San Francisco, not when you were on _my_ side after what happened with Samuel-“

”I think I’ve earned a few bragging rights when it comes to shit creeks and no paddles-“

”Aaron, no, you _said-_ “

Rio cuts off and blinks at him over one shoulder. Miles can’t blame _her_ , either. Even now he treated arguments like a high-level dungeon: spaces to avoid at all costs so he wouldn’t get ripped to shreds. He still really, really, _really_ doesn’t want them fighting. Miles hopes with all his might the mildly clueless approach will work as he hovers in the doorway with his ridiculous beanbag in his arms.

“…Babe, hey.” She puts on a little smile, though she’s still breathing heavily with barely restrained anger. Aaron, on the other hand, throws his head back and scowls up at the ceiling. “Mind checking the mail for me?”

”Sure.” Miles tucks the beanbag next to the door and scurries out. “No prob.”

A bill, a well-wishing card from some friend he doesn’t know and coupons. He can still hear them outside. Like always, he can hear _everything_. Miles covers his ears when he shuts the box, then just pushes the envelopes under the door and hurries off down the street. The last thing he hears before he’s out of range is Rio calling for him to come back inside, apologizing for raising her voice.

* ~ - ~ *

It’s easy to pretend in these places. All the glitz and noises isn’t _quite_ looking up at the stars from the solitude of his rooftop, but it achieves the same placebo effect: he’s invisible.

Makes it all the more a shame arcades have such a hard time getting funded, because they also look like they’re from another planet. If he wasn’t already used to lots of psychedelic colors he might have to take a second to adjust his eyes before walking into Dizzy Street’s old-school technicolor wonderland. Lots of activity inside. More than a few black people, too, which means there’s only a 50/50 chance he’ll be followed around the establishment today. Lucky, lucky. Miles drifts through a river of scrolling lights and blinking screens, letting his nostalgia act like a proverbial fishing net and catching whatever hits him first.

There’s a Frogger machine he tries out first. He _loved_ this game when he was little. Something about a tiny frog just trying to survive a barrage of everything and the kitchen sink hit home with him. He does a few rounds of Pong after and gets a good flow going to wind down after the almost-panic attack at home. He really wants to try one of the bullet hell shooters (Gwen was _crazy_ good at these), but a trio of twenty-somethings are glued to the screen and won’t be moving any time soon. Miles hunches against the wall and pretends to be texting, quietly watching over his phone as they try to beat the machine’s previous high score. At one point the tallest in the group pulls out a phone and starts recording. Sheesh. This must be one legendary play session in the making.

Soon he’s getting into it and silently rooting for them to get past a boss that’s pretty much _all_ projectiles. The only thing that makes him look away is the signature prickle to his skin, painfully tight with its usual creeping menace. Miles swallows thickly and reluctantly peers past the shadowed heads at the front door.

”Oh, you’re going to _love_ this, slimy.” Mr. Brock is muttering as he hunches through the bright white of outside. “Bet they don’t have this on Jupiter.”

_Mr. Brock!_ Miles happily straightens up, even as the weird sight of a guy talking to himself has already started to turn a few peoples’ heads. He’s…not sure what that’s about. He _could_ be hearing voices, which, in all honesty, would line up with more than a few of his theories. He’s pretty sure the guy has some sort of disorder (though he’d have to double-check with Gwen on the difference between depression hallucinations and schizophrenic hallucinations). Everyone had their own issues with being honest about that sorta thing, though, so he won’t bring it up. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s judging him.

”What about that one? It’s not _that_ noisy, come on.” Mr. Brock scoffs, peering and grinning at something off to the left. “Seriously? You’re iron one minute and tissue paper the ne-“

Without further hesitation Miles politely side-steps a distracted toddler and jogs over to the man idling by the gumball machine.

”Hey, Mr. Brock!”

” _Speedster!_ ” He gets a tight hug and half-swing in place. ”…Wait, have you been here the whole time?” He sets him down and frowns, whipping his chin over one shoulder to peer at the front doors. “I didn’t keep you waiting, did I?”

”No, no, it’s fine.” Miles assures. “Just wanted to come here early.” Oh! That reminds him. He digs around in his pocket and pulls out a gum wrapper…then shoves it back in and pulls out the business card he was originally reaching for. “Guy on the street asked me to hand these out. It’s a, uh, barber shop or something-“

”Oh, you ran into Darryl?” His old mentor’s still got bags under his eyes, but they light up and make him look ten years younger in an instant. “That’s awesome!”

”Yeah, like, two weeks ago. You sure you know him?” Sheesh, this guy knew _everybody_. “Guy with the hat covered in pins? Long locs?”

”Yeah! He lives at my mot-“ He pauses. “…Neighbor. Guy’s my neighbor. Real card, that one.” He smirks and raises his eyebrows for a reaction. Miles sighs.

”That was _pretty_ bad, Mr. Brock.”

”Well, can’t say I didn’t try. Yeah, he’s been trying to get his barber shop off the ground for two or three years now.” He hooks an arm around his shoulders and leads him deeper into the arcade. “Hit a rough patch in his life and trying to start over new. Give back to the community, make a little money. He’s given me haircuts before, actually. Can’t say I give him much to do-“ He rubs at his hair and makes his bangs bounce back up. A self-conscious Eddie Brock was about as rare a sight as a double rainbow. “-more sentimental than anything-“

It’s funny he’s not really feeling himself today, because he looks way better than he did. Mr. Brock at the Center had looked like he got hit by a truck. Like he got that sort of depression funk that makes even a shower the hardest thing in the world. Today he’s looking tight in a splashy graphic tee that shows off his tattoos, with dark jeans and short boots like he just got off a motorcycle or something. Miles has a daydream about getting a tattoo himself as they grab drinks at the counter to prepare themselves for a few hours of hard gaming. He starts to point for the soda, then hastily shifts to the sports drink to the right. Mr. Brock glows with approval.

”See now, you’ll thank me for that. High-fructose corn syrup tastes good in the moment, but it’ll slap you later. Today’s set to get pretty hot, too. Eighties, maybe nineties.”

He asks the cashier for _five_ Cliff bars, then promptly gets to work wolfing them down one-by-one on the spot. Miles was _pretty_ sure the point was to eat one of those in-between meals, but he doesn’t comment. Maybe it’s a bodybuilder thing.

”I’m lucky to have your endless wisdom on tap.” Miles sips his Powerade and tries not to make a face. Why do sports drinks always taste like watered down cough medicine? People actually _chug_ this stuff.

”I’ve only gotten wiser with age.” Mr. Brock responds, happily munching away on his third. Miles snorts.

”I think that saying’s even more outdated than you are.”

Brock pretends his words have struck a physical blow, holding onto the corner of the counter with one hand and clutching his chest with the other. Miles sputters on his drink and coughs all the way over to the retro game section. That was weirdly realistic. Actually…

”You ever taken a punch, Brock?” He asks, suddenly super curious. Surely he’s used those huge arms for more than just crushing beer cans and arm-wrestling Flash.

”Oh, yeah, once in college! I was at this party, right. One of the undergraduates was _loaded_ , wanted to show off their cash and threw this shindig on the upper floor one Friday night. So many trust fund kids, I’m telling you. I found a $20 in the lawn before I even stepped inside.” Oh, boy. No spidey-sense needed for the Eddie Brock Rant coming out. “Wasn’t the ritziest of universities, but it had enough prestige to, well, have a random son-of-a-gun finding dollar bills on the ground. You know, it’s bull you have to come from money or have a thousand connections just to get into some places. The rest are saddled with student loans that suck them dry even after they get that elusive job. Even that’s a gamble!”

”So…did you punch out a financial aid representative, _or_ …” Miles offers, trying to steer him back on track as gently as possible. Eddie rips the foil off his last bar and takes a big bite.

“Oh, yeah. So I got into this scrap with some douche trying to start something with a buddy of mine, Nic. I mean, the guy was no pushover, even back then when he was a chainsmoking wallflower, but it didn’t mean I wanted to see him take a black eye during a party, right? Don’t even remember who it was. Just some frat guy after too many Bud Lights. Heard them snapping at each other, so I stepped in and got one right here. Hit the wall behind me and sent an elbow straight through the plaster.” He makes a fist and knuckles his jaw. “Nic was so pissed he temporarily stopped speaking English. That’s _peak_ angry, let me tell you.”

”Did you punch them back?” Miles gapes, trying and totally failing to imagine this bubbly, outgoing guy taking someone down. Even if he _did_ drum out a successful fantasy it’d be canceled after pilot, anyway, with the way his old mentor immediately shakes his head in horror.

”Speedster, please! I just wrestled him to the ground and sat on him ‘til some campus officials came by.”

”That’s, like…badass _and_ lame.”

Mr. Brock’s head twitches, suddenly glancing down at the floor and off to the side like he just heard something strange. …That’s kind of weird, because his own hyper-sensitive hearing is only picking up the usual chatter and tinny music of the arcade. After a long, awkward pause the man shrugs and agrees, then launches into another diatribe about how his college friend can throw a much better punch. Miles takes another sip of his drink as he listens and vividly imagines putting all his jitters in his inventory and saving them for later. Sure, he got to hang out with Eddie Brock a little bit a few weeks back, but this is _finally_ a one-on-one day, a la the good old days at the Center. He needs to get this right.

”You doing okay, Brock?” Miles hedges, because it’s worth a try. He gets a quick handwave and pearly smile.

”Oh, sure, yeah. Come on. Let’s take a stroll down nostalgia boulevard.”

They start off by taking turns on Pac-Man (Miles _decimating_ Mr. Brock’s high score and earning a solid slap on the back), then they try Donkey Kong. It doesn’t take long for his old mentor to start complaining about stiff muscles, though, and they go to one of the dance machines. Miles hasn’t actually been on one of these before, because they’re _embarrassing_ and he has no IRL friends outside of the people he occasionally snacks with in his after-study group. He glances over at Mr. Brock when he starts loudly debates the merit of each song. The only people in this aisle are glued to their screens of choice, so this should be fine as long as they don’t look over.

”God, this _song list_.” He groans and rubs his temples like he’s come down with a migraine.

”Hey, _some_ of these songs are good.” Miles protests. “They’re even upgraded. You’re not a fan of Despacito?”

”Nah, nah, Despacito’s a winner, it’s just…mainstream pop is so soulless. It’s like chewing bubblegum. There’s no identity, no _flavor_.”

”Oh, no. Mr. Brock, you’re not gonna, like, go on about how there’s no real music made nowadays, right?”

”Of course not. Plenty of great stuff being made this year, last year, the year before that. It just never gets aired on the Top 40.” They’re mostly on the same page, but he’s always rolling on one ball or another. “That’s the thing with the mainstream. It’s all a just-add-water approach to keep us placid when there’s no good reason for it. Why’d big band have to be pushed to niche tastes? Heck, I didn’t think house would go anywhere, but it kind of did. Love that stuff…” To his credit he seems to realize he’s been standing on the dancing pad rambling for the past three and a half minutes. “…All right. How about you pick the first song?”

Miles shuffles through the list…which is _admittedly_ pretty crappy. Who the hell can dance to Kelly Clarkson? It’s, like, scientifically impossible. An idea pops into his head as he rock-paper-scissors himself between Michael Jackson and Beyoncé. It’s cheating…but he _really_ wants to impress his mentor. That wasn’t a sin, right? Wanting to _not_ be a shitty little loser for once? Thanks to that stray dog (that he completely failed to intercept because he’s a fucking failure) he’s not as rusty as he _could_ be with these particular powers.

”You’ll be eating that ‘outdated’ comment in one and half minutes.” Mr. Brock quips as he stretches and settles into place. “I’ll show you exactly how I won first place at my high school reunion’s dance competition.”

All the pressure.

They start off with ‘Despacito’, because why not, then go back in time with ‘Beat It’. It doesn’t take long for his score to _seriously_ dip below Mr. Brock’s. He’s completely shit with competition and way too jittery. It’s time to slow down time. Miles spikes up his spidey-sense until everything goes slow-mo, giving plenty of room to hit every single last dance prompt. When the song ends his new score flashes a brilliant neon-pink, the arcade’s already psychedelic surroundings cranked up to eleven. He even earns a crowing remark from one of the employees walking by with someone’s pizza tray. Their movement lingers in the air, leaving a long, blue trail running all the way down the aisle like long exposure photography. Miles turns and grins at Mr. Brock…

…who’s just standing there and staring at him.

”Um.” Miles’ stomach shrinks into a little pea. “…Rematch?”

”…You did good.” He glances over his shoulder, then back to him, then over his shoulder again. Miles’ skin prickles again. He starts to turn around. “No, it’s nothing, kid. You were great. Seriously, why didn’t you tell me you could pull off moves like that?”

”I…dance in my room…sometimes.” Miles mumbles. It’s the whitest of lies – he sometimes bounced around to a song while cleaning – but it seems to fly. Mr. Brock was that funny kind of adult that had really high standards and was _really_ easily impressed.

”Well, why don’t you pick the next song, then?” Mr. Brock flexes and makes one of the nearby visitors giggle and nudge their friend. “I’ll rise to your challenge.”

It’s not a challenge. He’s just a shitty cheat. Miles manages a jerky little nod and quickly reaches over to choose a song. A sharp _bzzt_ makes him jump a foot in the air. The machine abruptly shuts off. _Shit!_ He must’ve gotten too nervous and accidentally activated his powers. He hurriedly shakes off his hands. To Mr. Brock it probably looks like he’s in pain, which is way better than the alternative.

”You okay?” His eyes are huge. He hovers a hand near the machine, but doesn’t touch it. “Jesus, what was _that?_ ”

”Y-Yeah.” Miles steps off the now-dark platform, legs trembling like jelly. He could’ve hurt him. “Yeah, just…s-static shock, I think.”

”No kidding.” Mr. Brock whistles and scratches at his light beard. “Guess that’s a sign we should try something else, then?”

Two employees walk over to inspect it, muttering to themselves about how it was brand new and shouldn’t be shutting off. Damn it. Make that _another_ ability that was coming and going without warning. He’s lucky all it did was short-circuit the machine. Sometimes it could be strong enough to have the force of a taser. He found _that_ out in New York. Out of nowhere and…too late.

_”Miles, no, just listen to me, you have to get out of here!”_

_”No! No, Peter, come on, just get up, I’ll help you walk-“_

_”It’s not going to be enough, they have a dozen guys, you need to just go. Run as fast as you can!”_

Miles shudders and imagines shutting the thoughts in a high-tech vault and spinning the combination lock. Mr. Brock looks him up-and-down, slowly, a creeping concern spreading on his face. His chest sinks when he doesn’t launch into an immediate, long-winded answer or make a joke. It’s the kind of look people got when they notice something strange and are typing up a rough draft in their head on how to talk about it.

”…Static shock.” He says, evenly, like he’s reporting the weather. “It’s not even winter, either. Living up to your title, Speedster.”

Miles swallows slowly, stomach twisting like it’s filled with angry snakes. …He _really_ doesn’t like the way he’s been looking at him today. Mr. Brock clearly knows _something_ isn’t right. The man’s blue eyes are less comforting and more unsettling, pupils strangely small in the patch of dark between the neon lights. He might even know he’s been lying. He suddenly feels so utterly rotten he can’t speak. Without another word the man reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, steering him away to a quieter corner. …Oh no. Oh _no_.

”…Hey.” He doesn’t have to kneel to his level anymore, but that same feeling is still there when he bends down and looks him at him closely, both hands on his shoulders now. “Not to put you on the spot or anything, but you’ve been kind of antsy today. Is there…anything you want to talk about?”

Miles’ eyes grow hot. His mouth quivers. …This is stupid. It’s not _fair_. Why was being asked a basic thing like ‘ _are you okay_ ’ always the catalyst for tears? He sits through classes that barely interest him without flinching and deals with shitty comments from study group about ‘acting white’ like it’s no big deal. Then someone asks him the number one question and it’s like a tower of popsicle sticks being kicked apart. Maybe _that’s_ what Mr. Brock’s been noticing today. The sticks, one-by-one, falling over and making a mess.

”…I don’t want to go home.” He blurts out, before his brain filter kicks in, and inwardly smacks himself when Mr. Brock slowly tilts his head to the side.

”You don’t…want to go home?” His mentor leans back and blinks. “Why not?”

”Um. It’s just awkward family stuff. I wanted to ask, actually, before you came over…can I…stay with you for a bit?” He adds, quickly, when Mr. Brock’s eyes just get wider. “Just for one night.”

”I…I’d be fine with that, really, I would…” A nervous little laugh. “…but my place is a mess.”

”I don’t care.” Miles stammers, on the ball now and rolling helplessly toward the horrible conclusion. “That’s fine, really. I don’t mind. My room’s a mess.”

Of _all_ the times for Mr. Brock to show he’s more than just muscle it’s now. That unnerving look from before is gone, but now it’s shrewd and picking him apart like a Lego box.

”Why are you asking this, kid?” He squeezes his shoulder and gives him a gentle little shake. “Come on. Let it out. What’s going on at home?”

He’s a burden. That’s what he’s trying _not_ to say. Miles has been too selfish and cowardly to just admit it, all this time. Mr. Brock’s just here to get him off his back and save face when he’s got a _thousand_ other things to do. Miles is a mopey, whiny, greedy little burden on everyone he comes across, even people he doesn’t _know_. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. He shouldn’t have come here. Why does he even bother going outside when the world has never wanted or needed him?

”Speedster, _woah_. Hey, there...”

He manages to fix his shaking mouth into a mumbled request for a bathroom break, but Mr. Brock’s pulling him into a hug and…it’s the finishing blow. He’s not invisible anymore.

“Kid, what’s wrong…” Mr. Brock whispers, patting his shoulderblades as he burrows his face into his chest and starts to bawl. “Aw, hey…”

He wants to tell him to stop, but he doesn’t _want_ him to stop, either, and he doesn’t know what the _hell_ he wants anymore. It’s not fair. It’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not _fair_. He can’t go one measly day without something like this happening. It’s not just the falling star or the crumpled statue. It’s everything, all the time, twenty-five hours a day with no commercial breaks. Miles is snuffling so hard he barely realizes where he’s going as he’s steered out of the arcade into the warm afternoon. The breeze smells like summer, but his body is already on fire, now melting him down to a puddle on a parking lot cement block.

Mr. Brock hunkers down next to him and waits quietly with his fingers knitted together. A worker comes out and asks a question about his health, which he waves off politely and asks for privacy. He only speaks to him when the tears die down, handing him his Powerade and giving him a gentle comment to stay hydrated. Miles sips his drink in-between tired hiccups.

”Feeling better?” Mr. Brock murmurs, leaning on his elbows to peek at his downcast face.

”…A little.” Miles whispers, voice raspy and a mild headache behind his eyes. “…That was embarrassing.” He adds, almost too tired to be mortified. Almost. He feels like a reverse butterfly. Going from confident and productive in the day to a crappy little caterpillar that wants to wrap up in its own suffocating layers of inadequacy. Mr. Brock shrugs easily.

”None of their business.”

”Still. It’s not like I can just cry at everything and everywhere.” Miles caps his now empty bottle and taps it moodily on the ground. “People will think I’m a pussy.”

”Woah, hey now. What’s up with _that?_ ” Mr. Brock frowns at him. “You afraid to be compared to a girl?”

”What? No, I just meant, like…” Miles rubs his itchy eyes and starts to frown himself. Huh. That’s…kind of what it sounds like, come to think of it. “…Sorry.”

”Yeah, see. Crying isn’t a girl thing or a boy thing. It’s a human thing. Let people think what they want. Again, it’s none of their business.” Just that nonchalance makes him think of better times. Of burgers and gulls. It’s a nice memory. He holds onto it. ”I’d love for it to be my business, though.” It’s kind of a weird way to put it, but Miles gets what he means. “Whatever you got. Lay it on us.” Mr. Brock pauses and blinks rapidly, like he just got dust in his eyes. “…Me.”

Miles feels the world’s tiniest smile spread on his face. He loves his kooky, awkward mentor. It takes a few minutes for him to organize his inventory after crying. He gives him the (mostly) unabridged version, which ends up mutating into a vent session that lasts long enough to see new cars shuffling out of the parking lot and his stomach growling. He meant to lightly scratch the surface on his frustration at his uncle, then it turns into a rant about _all_ the things he did. Then the fight between Rio and Aaron earlier today. Then a stupid conversation that happened at school yesterday.

”…Jesus H. _Christ_.” Mr. Brock mutters at one point, chin in his hand and brow wrinkled into a horrified knot.

It’s a TMI dump that he’s going to _seriously_ regret once he gets home, but he starts to feel lightheaded in a way that has nothing to do with crying like a baby. The thing about Eddie Brock was…he made it so easy to talk to him because he _cared_. His humorous approach to life’s little problems almost reminds him of Dad. At least, back before he showed he really didn’t care at all.

”…and I’m basically a dumb coward that never has the guts to talk about how I feel so I just rant to my friends online or you out of nowhere.” Miles finishes, quickly, and wrings his the bottom of his sweatshirt until it feels close to tearing. His cellphone buzzes, like an alarm, and he adds, ”…Crap. I’m sorry. We were going to have fun, then eat and then all _this_ …you must be really hungry right now.”

”III mean, III usually am.” He responds, like he suddenly got a smoker’s cough, and Miles’ spidey-sense spikes. Small wonder. That sounded _awful_. He hacks into his fist. “ _Ack_. Sorry. I mean, walk as much as I do and calories really don’t have the chance to squat.” His voice softens. “Hey. Listen. I’m sorry things aren’t working out between you and your uncle. You think it’s just the new living situation getting on everyone’s nerves?” He scoffs at Miles’ expression. “All right. Yeah, one of those. Well. That wasn’t okay, kid. Putting you in danger like that, no matter his intentions, isn’t okay. How’s your mother taking all this, then?”

”She’s…” He sighs. There’s another hour-long talk in there. “…trying.”

Mr. Brock’s expression reminds him of those classic Animorph covers. First it’s a long, sympathetic frown. Then his face becomes blank, like he’s suddenly remembering something. Then his eyes drift across the near-empty parking lot and get distant. Miles knows a bad memory (or five) when he sees one.

”I’m sorry. I’m really, _really_ sorry.” He apologizes, again. “This was supposed to be a fun day and I just made it all about me and my problems. I shouldn’t have-”

”No, no, kid. I get it. What you’re both…dealing with right now.” Mr. Brock was normally so bubbly, even kind of goofy in his own way, but he’s so suddenly somber it’s like looking at a total stranger. Miles considers for the first time how much of his upbeat personality could be a front. ”This isn’t the kind of thing they teach you in high school, not when they care more about farming you out to the nearest fast food joint or community college, but…getting out of bed and trying your hardest, even if it’s just doing the dishes or telling someone something nice? It’s one of the bravest things there is.”

Miles blinks, then squirms. His chest feels warm and cold at the same time.

”You know, I didn’t get a chance to thank you before I left.” He continues, a little slower than usual, like he really doesn’t want to misphrase what he’s about to say next. “I mean…I could’ve said something on social media, but I didn’t do that either.” A sigh. “You…well, cheered me up, kid. I wasn’t really accomplishing as much as I wanted to back then. I mean, sure, I was finishing my degree, getting in community work, but it felt like going through the motions, right? Checking off boxes. It was seeing _you_ that made me feel like I was actually doing some good. Just putting a smile on your face felt more real than half the articles I put up.”

Miles never smiled all that much, even back then when things weren’t quite as hard, so that was saying something. He stares at the wrinkled bottom half of his sweatshirt, feeling a better kind of embarrassment slowly rising from his toes all the way to his hair.

”…Thanks.” He whispers. “Though that wasn’t just me. It was you, too.”

Mr. Brock chuckles and fondly knuckles his shoulder.

”Well, thanks, kid. I appreciate it. Now…there anything else you want to tell me? Anything at all?”

A million things, actually…but there’s a little bit of hope sitting in his chest now. His anxiety is still woozy from crying, with just a little bit of leftover panic making a dozen ideas blow around in his brain. Ideas that could… _do_ something. Right now, though, he just needs to prepare to navigate the new-but-not-new spaces at home again.

”Sure.” He starts, tentatively, and scrubs excess tear grit from his eyes. ”Maybe…maybe later, though?”

”Later sounds good. We’ll have to catch a movie or something.”

”You sure all the blockbusters aren’t too soulless?” Miles teases. Mr. Brock puffs up his chest and sniffs like a snobby English gentleman.

”Oh, I _know_ they are, small child, but I want an excuse to eat popcorn.”

Miles reaches into his pocket and checks his phone. That makes his fingers brush up against the business cards that have been in these same jeans forever now.

”Come on. Let’s grab something to eat before we wind up the day.”

”Actually…”

Before they leave Miles goes to Dizzy Street’s front desk and works up as much courage as he can to talk to the bored workers leaning against the counter. A little bit of good. That’s all. Mr. Brock hangs back by the door and lets him start a lead-in about a ‘friend’ trying to spread the word about his barbershop.

”Oh, seriously?” To his surprise one of them actually leans in with interest. “I got a brother who needs a haircut, actually. Keeps putting it off. They local?”

”Uh, yeah. He is. Yeah, address is on the back…”

When he walks back out, two business cards lighter, Mr. Brock gives him a high-five that feels like a million dollars.

They go to a food truck and get paninis. By the time Miles is halfway through with his Mr. Brock has finished and, somehow, _still_ looks like he didn’t just eat five trail mix bars earlier. They talk about the Western videogame industry and whether or not VR is going to get better in the future. Before he goes back on the bus Miles hugs him tightly. It’s one of those stupid hugs where he doesn’t want to let go even when his mentor does, and it’s probably the second most embarrassing thing today when he clings a little longer, but…Mr. Brock doesn’t complain. Just hugs him tight all over again, lays his cheek on his head and stays there until he’s done.

* ~ - ~ *

“ _OwO what’s this_ ”, SilkySmoothPotatoes, 6:14 p.m.

“ _just want to know if you think ghosts are real, that’s all, don’t get weird on me_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 6:14 p.m.

“ _I dont THINK their real, I KNOW their real_ ”

“ _*they’re_ ”

“ _i mean theirs always stuff we cant explain dude!!! things that go doki doki in the night and faces in the background of photos and whispering down the hall! i have some crazy grandma stories to tell you actually. i mean, ghost tales and folklore and stuff have been around for like thousands of years, theres gotta be some truth to it_ ”, SilkySmoothPotatoes, 6:15 p.m.

Why, oh _why_ couldn’t Cindy have just said no?

His mind has latched onto a tiny detail like a cat with a feather and hasn’t stopped batting it around in his brain for an entire week straight. It was a little better than dwelling on his meltdown at the arcade, admittedly, and for once the racing thoughts are actually working in his favor. It’s a plan that simmers slowly and feels more promising with each passing day. Miles has written down notes during study group, daydreamed about scenarios at the Center, hashed out details before bed and even play-acted in his room. It’s cheesy, but Mr. Brock’s speech might also have a little something to do with his new boost in confidence.

He’s going to break into Pretty Slope and make sure his uncle gets that job.

”Hey, you. Find that album yet?”

Sheryl’s got almost as many tattoos as Mr. Brock, with a buzzcut like Furiosa, to boot. Miles looks up from his game and puts on a cheerful grin.

”Not yet. It’ll happen someday, though.”

Anxiety jumps on that verb and goes full Sonic, just like it’s been doing all week long. He’s going to run into more ghosts when he uses his powers, no doubt about it. Then he’s going to get caught. _Then_ he’s going to get carted off to some science facility and cut open and put into a jar and he’s never going to see his mother again or Mr. Brock or his friends or even his stupid shitty uncle-

Miles pauses the game…then takes in a deep breath and starts up a round of breathing exercises. He’s gonna have to ask Mom if they can watch more romantic comedies or something this weekend.

All right. All he’s going to do is sneak inside and toss out a few people’s resumes. Not _all_ of them. Just some. If he helps his uncle get this job…he won’t have to resort to theft and go back to jail again. If he _doesn’t_ go back to jail he can stay with the family and help his mother out. If he helps his mother out, things will finally get a little easier for everyone. Eddie told him doing good wasn’t just about big things. It was about _small_ things, too. This was a small thing: getting to the top of the pile of his messy life so he could better tackle the mess.

Miles first started web-shooting practice in his room late at night, using his clothes at first, then smaller objects like pencils and wads of paper as practice targets. Later he’d go outside and put targets in the lawn, putting a soda can in his sleeve to make-believe to any nose neighbors he’s shooting silly string. Only when he ran out and needed to recharge would he take a break and stare at his literal handiwork.

“Ganke would make _so_ many gross jokes.” He’d muttered to himself as he observed the messy aftermath all over the grass, trees and fence. The webs became translucent after a certain point, right before they evaporated, almost looking like a real spiderweb. Until then, though, they kind of looked like…

”What the fuck is all _that?_ ” Aaron had called from the top story, forcing him to come up with the world’s quickest and weirdest lie about a silly string art project. “…Yeah? Well, you _might_ want to get a different color, because it looks like-“

” _Thanks!_ ” Miles had yelled back. “That’s a great point, thanks a lot!”

Now he’s sitting by Pretty Slope’s front door and A-sign on a Friday evening, only partially believing he was actually about to execute his crazy plan.

“I’m trying to do the right thing for everyone, Peter. It’s not that he deserves this. I’m just trying to make things easier.” He whispers, in case ghosts really _were_ real and he could hear him, somewhere out there. “Also, I finally played Tactics. It’s just as good as you said.”

His spidey-sense went crazy when the star (or _whatever_ it was) hit the hotel, which made perfect sense. It warned him of danger. The problem is it didn’t _cool down_ afterwards. Ever since that night it’s been this constant alarm wailing in the distance, like the world has permanently changed. Sometimes it’s a little quieter, sometimes it’s a little louder, but it never shuts up. There was no instructional manual for this. He has no choice but to come up with his own theories. When he reunited with Brock at the arcade it ramped up again, just like that, and his anxiety, like _usual_ , is making things worse by trying to tell him everything’s related.

…What if it had a point, though?

Normally that’s the part where he’d take out his mental Smash Bros. hammer and knock the ‘ _what if_ ’s into the stratosphere, but another detail has itched and itched at him. Something small and big at the same time. His spidey-sense didn’t go off when he ran into Eddie Brock at the Center for the first time in years. Not even a _little_ bit. No…it started going off around him _after_ the star and has been screeching ever since. That’s still a stretch, it has to be, but…there was also the way he kept looking at him. Not just _him_ , either, but sneaking glances over his shoulder like he was seeing something. Seeing…

”…ghosts?” He whispers, then shudders hard. “No fucking way. Shut _up_ , brain. Yell at me when I get home.”

It’s just an idle theory. He needs to focus. The biggest goal right now is to sneak into the record store when it’s closed, dark and there’s nobody around. Easier said than done, but not by much. Miles stuffs his game into his pocket and rubs his palms together, testing out the sparks. Few people are walking by and, even if they saw, they’d probably think the lights were glitter or something. He makes it a point not to look up when he hears the employees inside kicking up a chatter as they clock off.

He’s visited Pretty Slope three times over the past week. He’s actually pretty proud of the lie he invented to reduce suspicion: he looked up a _really_ obscure band with an even more obscure album online and found out through Aaron the store still has a _bunch_ of donations they haven’t sorted through yet (hence why they’re hiring help) The lesser-known band he’s ‘desperate’ to buy has provided a great excuse to drop by and browse. Doesn’t stop him from feeling dirty every time he scanned the interior for ‘trouble spots’, though (as Aaron once put them in some effort to make shoplifting sound cute). Soon he knows the little store like the back of his hand, knows all the workers’ names and is an expert on an obscure 70’s Motown group.

He’s also sure he’s never going to get the store’s signature ‘old couch’ scent out of his clothes.

It’s a tiny mom-and-pop place without any sensors and just one camera. Because it’s not super new that means the biggest problem is getting through the front door. He doesn’t want to spend precious minutes picking the lock apart and risk getting caught, though he _could_ do it. No, his best bet was to zip out a web into the lock and stick it apart, since it’s much less suspicious than breaking open a window or snapping the doorknob off its hinge. He’d have to wait a little while, afterward, but once the webbing melted he can (hopefully) wiggle it open, step inside and take care of the camera. He’s got his hoodie ready and a bandana stuck in his shirt collar to keep his identity hidden.

Miles scoffs. Aaron would be so proud.

He pretends to be super into his RPG (which isn’t really a lie, he’s just beat it twice) as the store closes for the weekend. The workers shuffle out and call last-minute orders over their shoulder, distracted by the rest of their evening. Slowing down time makes it easy to aim. He’s not _entirely_ sure what other people see when he does this, though, and pretends he’s sneezing when he jerks out his left hand and juts his inner wrist out. Rich blues and reds pronounce themselves in the cool evening browns and grays. The familiar double-image slides into place and overlays a supernatural filter over his everyday world.

He zips out a web line and-

-misses.

It goes right past Sheryl’s legs and sticks to the wall by the door. Miles winces and rubs at his nose to keep up the illusion. Thankfully she’s frozen into a convenient position, peering into the half-open door. Another try. Another try. He can _do_ this. If he panics now he’ll compromise his powers, give up and run home. Miles works up another pretend sneeze (actually pretending he’s expelling the knot of anxiety in his chest into the air) and tucks his arm against his stomach to adjust his aim. He holds out his hand again, pushes webbing through his forearm and-

-hits his target.

Miles gapes. Holy shit. He…he did it. All that practice actually _paid off_. He joyously (and kind of numbly) stares at the white webbing stuck in the crevice between the door and doorjamb. He’s the only one that can pull it apart, if he chooses, but that’ll also take time. It’s time to muck around for a few hours, then check back right as it starts to melt. Hands shaking with his victory he gets to his feet, waves goodbye to Sheryl and leaves. A long walk and getting lost in one of his favorite games passes the time _so_ well he nearly goes over his time limit. By the time he makes his way back it’s pretty dark and there’s nobody else around.

His spidey-sense would tell him if anyone was coming up, but it’s hard not to keep glancing over his shoulder as he casually walks up to the door, pretends not to see the ‘Closed’ sign and tugs on the doorknob. Breathing a mile a minute Miles tugs at the door. The shaky panic suddenly spikes into a white-hot icicle when it doesn’t open. Did he actually miss his target? Has it not melted yet? Miles swallows hard and gives it another experimental tug, then a wiggle, then another tug. His sharp ears catch a soft _snap_ as the weakened webbing comes off.

Dizzy with relief, he tugs up his bandana over his face, then his hood, slipping inside and shutting the door before anyone notices.

It’s quiet and warm. Still smelling like a musty couch. Miles’ mind goes over the right and wrong details rapid-fire. He hasn’t seemed suspicious – it’s almost the weekend, people are off doing their own thing – and his identity is protected, more or less. Right now his toughest boss battle is a camera and self-doubt. God, he wishes he could actually _be_ invisible. Camouflage himself like a moth or something. If only wishes were fishes.

“Keep it simple, brain.”

Miles squints up at the security camera above the counter near the ceiling. Why _is_ it in such an obvious spot, anyway? …Oh, right. He remembers his uncle saying something about preventative measures: a camera where anybody could see was supposed to deter thieves and make them think twice. Well, bad news for them. Anxiety made him think about _everything_ five thousand times. He pulls up his sleeve to cover it in a web. His webbing could get pretty thick, even without layering it, and this was much easier to hit than a shutting door.

…Wait.

What if his web had some of his DNA? Could they… _trace_ it to him? Miles suddenly goes cold, old memories of dark suits and New York alleyways tickling the back of his mind. Nix that. He’ll have to electrocute it. That’ll be better, right? Short circuit it? He could, maybe…if he practiced _that_ more.

It’s not like shooting electricity from his palms was dart boards or firing webbing at bottles. This was _way_ more dangerous.

Miles’ chest tightens so hard it becomes hard to breathe. His second-guessing and third-thoughts are starting to swarm his vision, making it suddenly very, very hard to breathe, much less think five minutes ahead. It doesn’t help his spidey-sense is still screaming as it _always_ is that something dangerous is happening off to the west. God, he wishes it would just fucking _shut up_. He’ll never answer that call, anyway, because it was never made for him. It was made for people like Peter. His mom. Even Eddie Brock. Not him. Not cowards.

The knot in his chest _twists_. His mistakes outside. The looming sense of wrong in the horizon. The scummy, risky mission in front of him. It’s all pressing down on him until he can’t budge.

_”How does it go?”_

_”Oh, no.” Michelle covers her mouth as she almost spits out her Snickers bar. “Peter, you’re not going to-“_

_”Spiderman, spiderman. Does whatever a spider can.” Peter snickers behind his fist. “Pretty silly, right? Silly enough to make anxiety seem silly, hopefully, but jury’s still out on that one.”_

He hasn’t recited that silly anxiety song since…but just the thought of it makes him laugh, and that’s the tiny push he needs to keep going. Miles wipes his sweaty palms off on his jeans and takes a few deep breaths.

…Okay. If he gets too close to the camera they might see his face. He doesn’t know if this camera has some sort of cloud back-up (which he seriously doubts, but it’s not worth the risk). He’ll hit the camera with a web, _then_ send an electric charge. Just like a taser. Then he can fry the rest of the webbing so he can’t be traced. After that he’s got all the time he needs to go behind the desk and start looking for any resumes. He might actually get a chance to practice that lockpicking if they’re in a drawer or something. No big. He has the tools in his pocket. He hasn’t forgotten what he learned. He forgets to bring his headphones to the bus station or his own _phone number_ when someone asks him in-person, but for some reason he’s never forgotten this.

He pulls out one last tool in his inventory: imagining what he wants and hyperfocusing on how badly he wants it. He wants his mom to finally catch a break. He wants Aaron to get his shit together. He wants to worry about one less thing. He wants everything…to finally be a little bit _better_.

Miles fixes a hard stare at the camera. He’s going to slow down time again. It uses up his energy, but he _has_ to get this right. Once everything gets that familiar rainbow blur he whips out a line of web and sticks it right on the lens. He feels the familiar, warm tingle of electricity worming through his veins and shivering on his fingers. Like letting out a knot of tension he sends out a powerful surge of electricity and…

…the camera fries, then _melts_. The long line of webbing dangling over the front counter smokes, then evaporates. It’s such a strong charge that a few loose sparks trickle past the wall to bounce and pop out into the air. There’s no way in hell it’s working after that.

He stifles a happy howl and punches the air with glee. He did it. _He actually did it!_ That was the biggest hurdle. He can take as long as he want figuring out where the resumes are, put them all back together when he’s done and head on out. The guilt will come later, but at the very least he has this. _He has this_. Victory sings in his chest as the world speeds back up to reality. The blue and red fades. The double-image eases. The blurry glow fades. Then-

-a sharp _hiss_ as the fire sprinklers activate and what sounds like every last speaker, stereo _and_ radio in the entire record store spontaneously-

_-turns on._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super rearranging powers, _go!_ The latter half of this chapter was meant to be a separate chapter, but the pacing was whimpering at me for mercy, so I mushed them together. I waffled back-and-forth on whether or not to have Eddie and Miles hang out again, too, but it felt necessary. They’ve only had one real time to spend with each other so far in the story and that didn’t _quite_ feel like enough. …Especially not for the, ah, crazy shit coming up.
> 
> also, the chapter song was chosen because of the general atmosphere and the fitting lyrics…the title was just icing on the cake _lmao_
> 
> \--
> 
> The destroyed O’Sullivan statue is getting a lot of buzz not just in San Francisco, but the country over. Miles’ friends are talking non-stop about it and he wants _nothing_ more than for all the strange sightings in his city to stop.
> 
> While Aaron is settling into the house well enough – setting up shop in the garage -- he and Rio get into a fight when she finds out he used what little savings he had to buy more music equipment and furniture for a side-gig. To make matters worse Miles’s spidey-sense keeps detecting something on the horizon, a constant alert that hasn’t stopped since the ‘mysterious star’ hit the hotel. Mental health taking a beating, he looks forward to spending time with Eddie Brock at the local arcade. When they meet up he notices the man talking to himself and theorizes if he’s struggling with mental illness, which contrasts with the man’s more upbeat attitude and nice outfit.
> 
> Eddie is happy to know he and his uncle met Darryl and they catch up over food and games. He displays more unsettling behavior, including strange looks, appearing to hear strange sounds and having his voice suddenly change without warning. His old mentor, however, seems to notice something strange about _him_ , too. Soon the stress of all his secrets and the looming danger on the horizon makes Miles break down in the store. He and Eddie sit outside and have a long, vulnerable, much-needed talk.
> 
> This inspires Miles to follow through with a plan he had originally brushed off as an idle fantasy: break into Pretty Slope and remove other people’s applications to increase his uncle’s chances of getting the job. He’s not happy about sabotaging others’ chances _or_ breaking into an establishment, but he apologizes to Peter’s memory that he’s trying to make things a little easier on everyone involved. He spends a week practicing his web-slinging, reaction timing and even the burglary skills Aaron taught him when he was younger. On his free time he visits the store multiple times under the guise of trying to find an obscure album to learn more about the layout.
> 
> He manages to avoid suspicion and break into the store…then accidentally sets off the fire sprinklers and all the equipment in the store with an overpowered electric shock while trying to disable the camera.


	7. A Little Tight On Cash? Learn How This Janitor Started Making $500 A Week!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for classist remarks, biphobic microaggressions and explicit body horror.
> 
> Chapter Song – “Beggin For Thread” by BANKS

”Hey, I’m grabbing some chow tonight for the gang when I get off from work. Gonna be one of _those_ days. You want in?”

Wherever the young woman’s been in the past twenty-four hours, it hasn’t been good. Sofía‘s slouched on her lawn chair outside her door with five-pound eyebags, bundled in an old sweatshirt and a dress that’s barely holding together. Even her kid’s taking some sort of pity on her; it’s wide awake but chewing on one of her braids instead of yodeling its usual high note, frog eyes looking every which way for nothing in typical newborn baby fashion. It’s a casual suggestion, but the sour frown he gets down the walkway is about as predictable as a stop light. Oh, well. Eddie considers this a good time to call it on his fresh air and yoga squats and gives her probably the only genuine smile she’s going to get all week.

”Just saying, offer’s always open. You have a good one, Sophie.”

” _Why yyyou bother with such a tempestuous creature and hhher screeching, leeching kin III hope III never know._ ”

”Whatever. Let her be.” Eddie waves down at Deborah -- if only to drill in the point – before heading back inside. “Don’t throw stones in flesh houses, slimy.”

Tales taller than the Golden Gate Bridge are sprinkled around The Gulf about Sofía. The rumor mill may not be his favorite hang-out anymore, but he still knew his way around the art of gossip: people _loved_ a juicy story over all else, no matter how true it ended up being. One back-and-forth about the woman stabbing her pimp with a fountain pen, another about the baby not being hers, yadda yadda yadda. All conjecture until proven…not that it was any of _his_ business. Nah, he could just look with his own two eyes and see she was a drop in the ocean of poor suckers without a lifeline. He’s been dining on a pretty consistent diet of shit sandwiches for years now, but being a single Afro-Latina mother is one hell he’s _very_ glad he doesn’t have to deal with.

Eddie tugs open the lone window in his room to air out the place and ponders whether or not he should ask for a set of incense for Christmas. One last peek at his laptop -- a still unread e-mail from his father and a still unfinished fifth-draft apology letter to Anne – and he finally snaps the damn thing shut. Going from crunching a handful of articles all morning to _another_ job isn’t how he prefers to spend a pretty Friday, but there’s a silver lining on this cloud and he’s going to grab it with _great prejudice_.

He landed a typical escort session this afternoon: a trio from the East Coast are visiting San Francisco for the first time on a girl's night-style vacation. They found him through a recommendation and wanted 'someone hunky' (their words, and not bad ones, at that) to show them around the city while giving them arm candy to hang onto. It's a good thing he got a nice word put in for him by Julie or he might've been passed right over, what with being older than the usual clientele liked for this sort of thing. His only concern was what, _exactly_ , they all wanted to do over the course of their three-day weekend. Surprise kinks made for funnier stories than realities.

After that little snafu with Diane it’s nice to get back into the swing of things. He got paid an advance of $150 and there was a total of $500 on the line for just the night. Maybe a _bit_ more if he shook his ass.

Eddie turns the news channel on for background noise as he washes, brushes and sorts through his drawer. He needs to look casual, but not _so_ casual he was slumming it. He picks up his razor and sets it down three times before deciding to let his stubble remain. He’s...grizzled. Grizzled is good. With his shoulders and growing crow’s feet he couldn't really pull off the baby-faced look even if he wanted to. 'Sides. That's not why people called _him_ , anyway. It’s tempting to jog up to the third floor and ask to peek at Iris’s five foot tall stack of fashion magazines, but he’s on a deadline, here, and the sooner he’s out the door, the better.

”All right, goopster.” He spreads out his arms. “Hit me with your best shot and fire away.”

He gives it a nice little mental spreadsheet on how he wants to look, right down to the accessories. With a characteristic mutter about ‘silly creature vanity’ the symbiote slithers all over him and transforms his old Chargers t-shirt and briefs into an uptown-casual outfit that wouldn’t look out of place in an Esquire photoshoot. A falling star was one thing, but an alien that could hold the entire fashion industry in its hands (jaws?) was _way_ better. Eddie grins down at the dark jean jacket and leisure boots, looking damn suave even in bathroom light so dingy it’d make a flip-phone’s camera blush.

”Phew. This is _not_ what I had in mind concerning Martian men, but, Christ in a bucket, I’ll fucking take it.” He strikes a few self-indulgent poses, flexing his arms and twisting at a three-quarters angle to the left, then the right. “ _Damn_.”

” _The least of what III can do, Eddie_.” Is the smug murmur in his ear once it’s completed the last detail on the jacket, silky ink flattening and hardening into a shiny button. Eddie fiddles with it for a second – God, it really does _feel_ like the real deal – before grabbing his phone and keys off the counter. ” _Yyyou had yyyour practice on that rock. If ttthese greedy kin bother yyyou, consider crushing ttthem into a smear of piss_.”

”Yeah, I’ll put a pin in that.”

The O’Sullivan statue has since been removed (see: painstakingly towed and captured on countless mainstream and tabloid publications), much to the joy of the working poor and the bizarre chagrin of the upper-class. Eddie hadn’t exactly been in his best state of mind that night, but bright-eyed and bushy-tailed a few days later he still considers crumpling that eyesore up into a ball of trash his _finest_ work of art since he won a nationwide writing award his senior year of high school. Sure, he feels a little bad about the artists and all their hard work being cobbled together into a Kinder egg, but at least they got paid for it beforehand. …Provided they didn’t hate every last second of _that_ particular state commission, that is.

He idly twists his keys in and out of his knuckles as he heads down the street, remembering the way the metal crumpled between his fingers and feeling a tiny, unfamiliar thrill at the base of his spine.

” _III wonder what a human would look like rolled into a ball._ ” The symbiote chortles in flashes of magenta laced with white. He’s reminded of a berry cheesecake. “ _With yyyour peculiar biology of bile, blood and bones._ ”

Eddie scrunches his nose.

”Why can’t you just monologue about the weather?”

It doesn’t take long to bus and walk to the meet spot at Fisherman’s Wharf, despite San Francisco all but _crawling_ with tourists shuffling around like confused ducks. Right off the bat he spots the classic blonde, brunette and redhead trio from the photo: Victoria, Lauren and Stephie are waiting in a loud cluster on the sidewalk across from the Maritime Museum, all glittery nails and chirpy voices. He can pinpoint the leader of the pack by how she’s the first to notice his arrival and make her way over. Eddie hasn't been able to afford good cologne for a _while_ , so he hopes his shower and light sweat from the walk will do the trick. A good, manly musk really was nature’s own perfume. Come to think of it, he wonders if the alien could actually turn _into_ a spray bottle.

” _Can, yes. Want, no. Yyyou said we would be barricaded if we were exposed, but this planet bears less and less threat every day. Ever the liar._ ” The alien sighs, already aggressively bored. “ _Save for yyyour tiny other, that is_.”

” _Hush_.” Eddie hisses, and disguises it as a recovering smoker’s cough when the head honcho of the pack jogs up to him, grinning like it’s her birthday. “Hi.”

”Oh! Are _you_ Eddie Brock?” Victoria looks twenty-two going on thirty-two. Clearly a woman that could both afford fitness classes _and_ actually keep up with them. “Ooh, I _love_ your outfit.” She promptly plucks at his jacket and coos about the designer, forcing him to disguise another smoker’s cough at the realization she has _no idea_ what she’s actually touching. “…You okay? You’re not sick, are you?”

”Nah. Dry throat.” He rotates a hand in the district’s quintessential salty air. “That’s what I get for running those last two blocks, huh? Forget about me, let’s talk about your _dress_. Boutique?”

”Is it Eddie or Ed or…?” Lauren adds in an almost-country accent, sidling up to his left and making it _quite_ clear she’s going to be the generous tipper of the evening. Eddie makes sure to cultivate _that_ particular crop with a lopsided grin and a wink.

”Call me whatever you like, sweetheart.”

Stephie, with a collar tattoo and looking straight off a reality TV show, nudges Lauren with her elbow and says in an exaggerated drawl,

”Then I call dibs on ‘daddy’.”

Eddie tosses his head back with a hearty laugh to cover up the inward cringe. So it begins. The symbiote doesn’t speak, but the brown-green he gets feels _suspiciously_ like an eyeroll.

Despite the mild overcast the weather behaves and, so far, so do his clients. They ask the occasional ridiculous question (“Ever get an STD on the job?”), but are mostly content to hear him ramble at length as they go on the museum tour, then stroll downtown and hop on the occasional cable car in-between windowshopping. Eddie can count the amount of jobs he’s had just yip-yapping about San Francisco’s history and cross-referencing it with trending topics on both hands _and_ feet, so he breezes from one topic to another without so much as sideways breath. When they press about how he _knows so much!_ they’re easily impressed by his specific-yet-vague ‘content director’ and ‘retired journalist’. He side-steps their request for bylines by dropping a line about San Francisco’s falling star. It’s practically the new Clinton scandal for small talk distractions.

”I thought that was a _satellite_.” Lauren gapes, one hand covering her cute mouth. “Seriously? A star?”

”Who knows?” Eddie grins back.

He takes care to sneak in little questions about their lives over the hours, even though he really could care less about upper-class airheads. He learns Victoria’s a dentist from Utah, tired of her home state and looking for ‘adventure’ (doggy style, then). Lauren’s a mommy blogger with three parrots and Stephie owns an ‘organic’ weed dispensary in Oregon. The perfect triad for the cover of a lifestyle magazine. On the plus side they don’t want to do the Segway tour, which he’ll _personally_ thank God for when he hunkers down for prayer tonight. On the downside they never shut the good, godly hell up about every tiny speck of humanity on San Francisco’s face.

”Spare a dollar? Just a dollar or some change, ma’am.”

They haven’t been approached by any panhandlers all noon – which he knows is because his clients _sweat_ casual indifference – but it was only a matter of time until someone got particularly desperate. The guy’s got a permatan that all but brands him as one of the chronic homeless, trucker hat low on his eyes as he tries not to edge in too close. Lauren and Stephie titter about not having any change on them, angling away and pretending to notice something off to the right. Victoria doesn’t even _look_ , pulling out her phone and fake-texting. Two out of the three _just_ got done splurging at the gift shop and he knows they have walkaround money to spare because they keep asking if he wants to grab lunch.

For fuck’s sake.

”Hey, I got you, man.”

Eddie hands over the rest of his bus fare with a pat on the shoulder, because they could both use one. Guy has a _long_ day in his eyes. The kind filled with a hundred ‘no’s and a few sneers.

”…Well, _that_ was nice of you.” Lauren demurs once he’s out of earshot, shuffling her bag of goodies to one arm and holding onto him again with the other. Eddie stamps on a smile and watches out of the corner of his eye all the other tourists ignoring the guy as he makes the rounds further down the street, recycling the familiar blues.

”I mean…it’s the _least_ I can do. We shouldn’t be the only ones enjoying the Friday.”

”Seems kind of common here.” Victoria sniffs, scanning the weekend crowd like a particularly judgmental hawk. “Don’t see nearly this many in my hometown.”

"Well, yeah. It’s not exactly the cozy, small town vibe we offer in the 415.” Eddie tosses an arm around Lauren’s shoulders (getting a happy giggle in return) and gestures with the other. “We're one of the most well-known and richest cities in the _country_ , yet can't seem to figure out a way to keep people off the streets."

It’s meant to be a nice little aside. Sneak in some empathy while keeping the mood ‘appropriately’ light on-the-clock, like at those Aeronaut office parties he used to look forward to once upon a time in a land far, far away. It’s like trying to break a double-paned window with a sponge: a waste of goddamn time. As they hop onto another cable car to take a few more photos for the evening Victoria natters on and _on_ about one time someone broke into her Prius and how she was _sure_ it was a junkie and there’s just nothing _anybody_ can do. Eddie briefly considers asking the symbiote to turn into a pair of earplugs.

”Of course, it’s a nice sentiment, Mr. Brock, I’m not saying it _isn’t_ , but I have a sister that works with these types. When they’re not breaking into cars and stealing people’s radios they _always_ relapse. Always.” When Miles called him that it felt respectful. Sweet. This is getting a tug on a fishing line and bringing up a shoe. “I’m not trying to mean. It’s just the facts. No matter how much therapy or beer you give them they’re always back to the same old. I mean, _sure_ , _sometimes_ you get the rare diamond in the rough that rises above and beyond…”

”It’s never, like, marijuana or anything, either.” Stephie interjects. “It’s always, like, the hard stuff you don’t _actually_ need, like meth or crack?”

Lauren titters agreement and the conversation swings right over to all the drugs they’ve tried and decided ‘weren’t for them’. All the while a hot bubble of anger floats up from the pit of his sternum, a shot of whisky coming up in reverse. The symbiote has been pleasantly quiet this entire time, but now it stirs just beneath his skin. Uncoiling. Eddie slowly puts on his most charming smile. One that shows a _few_ too many teeth.

”…Ah. See. It’s not that simple, Victoria. Can’t climb a flight of stairs with just one step, right? Same goes for doping. Addiction isn’t…” His throat catches on the words, right out of nowhere like he’s a nervous kid at a presentation. He clears it. “…a smooth journey. It can’t be solved in a few weeks. Not even a few years. Gotta make sure these doors are open all the way or you’re just setting them up for more failure down the road.”

”But they could always just _stop_.” She shrugs, with the easy confidence of someone not used to being debated on _any_ level.

”Well, it’s like asking someone to _stop_ having a skin condition or to _stop_ having degenerative bone disease, right? Addiction’s a mental illness, see. Changes your brain chemistry and makes it so you can’t function right. Of course-“ He glides over the woman opening her mouth to protest again. “-it’s also a _symptom_ , not a cause. People don’t get addicted for the fun of it. They get addicted because of family issues, mental illness, grief, you name it. Think of it this way. Who _wants_ to sign off their entire life to a needle? A bottle?”

Victoria purses her thousand-dollar lipstick and stews on another rebuke. Lauren and Stephie glance to each other. Well, those communications courses he took weren’t for _nothing_. Eddie feels a few more eyes his way. It’s time to lay on a little flattery and attract a fly with honey.

”Come on, now. People don’t need us judging them from on high. They need a few helping hands and a little grace. If that means redirecting tax dollars toward cheap housing and better healthcare, then, Hell, I’m _all_ for it. Trust me, I’ve lived here a while. This city isn’t exactly putting its money where its _mouth_ is.” The tourists on the bus are picking a prime time to eavesdrop, shifting and glancing at their little group one-by-one. “I can think of _far_ worse things than giving a little cash to a single mother who needs help raising a kid or a guy who caught a bad break and can’t get back on his feet, huh?”

”Hear, hear, man.” Someone calls out three seats away. Finally, some goddamn _humanity_. Eddie gives them a wink. The cable car stops near Pier 39 and the line of ducks shuffles out, squawking about the view and snapping photos.

”Really, though…” He adds as they step back into the salty, windy air. “…can’t imagine _anyone_ would want to be put in a position of asking complete strangers for chump change.”

Lauren titters something about him being a ‘regular sweetheart’, which he strongly suspects is another attempt to chum up to him for the night, but he’ll take it. Stephie actually seems to be rolling his words around in her head, though, lost in thought and looking past their group. Eddie’s personal bible of little life lessons has been bloated for a while. One passage he visits regularly is to count and _recount_ those blessings. There’s another group of panhandlers just across the street milling in and out of traffic, thick enough for him to have to work to pick out a familiar face. Pink hair stands out immediately. That might just be Josie from the pack, trying to flag down a car idling by the stoplight.

”I think this is a good spot to make some memories.” He hears Stephie say. “We can call it the spot where Victoria got owned by the tour guide.”

Eddie chokes back a laugh. Well, it’s certainly not a bad note to scribble on the back of a photo. Lauren asks him to help them pick a place to take a selfie. Then the anger abruptly hits a sharp boil and bubbles over when Victoria opens her mouth for the last word.

"I mean…” The woman bobs her head at the busy street. “…people can barely even _drive_ , is all."

' _…You simpering, nearsighted, classist little shit. I bet you're the type to think panhandling's a crime worthy of a fine, huh? Probably think neighborhoods with yellow lawns are ‘sketchy’? When’s the last time you ever had someone tell you no? Been followed around in a store? I should knock every last tooth out of your mouth, sell that shit on eBay and forward the funds to the nearest homeless shelter under your own goddamn name-_ '

Before Eddie knows what’s happening he's lifting her up into the air like a sack of potatoes.

"What the-” Victoria _shrieks_ , flailing and kicking, and everyone in a fifty-yard radius shifts in one bulgy-eyed mass. “ _What the hell are you doing-_ ”

The blues and whites of the Wharf have suddenly become very, _very_ red. One loud voice off to his right asks if he’s a ‘fucking bodybuilder’. Someone to his left says a series of curses he’s never heard before. Lauren and Stephie’s jaws are on the ground, frozen in-between shock and complete bewilderment. A bright note of hyperawareness breaks through the rage. If he doesn't figure out something in _one literal second_ he's going to look like he's assaulting this woman in broad daylight.

"… _Perfect_ photo op." Eddie says to Stephie, inwardly _begging_ the symbiote not to get cute right now. “Three, two-“

He puts on a big ear-to-ear grin to top the act, heart trying to punch its way right through his chest. What feels like a small country is gaping at their bizarre picture in a sloppy semi-circle, uneasy mutters just low enough to feel ominous. The light turn green behind him, but cars aren’t driving. Victoria is still writhing in his grip, trying to pull down her dress and cursing like a sailor about how he needs to _put her down_ and she’s _going to fucking sue_. Now seems like a good time for an early prayer-

_Click_.

Stephie has her phone out at arm’s length, immortalizing the world’s almost-biggest fuck-up with a delighted _grin_.

”Jesus _Christ_ , dude!”

Oh, thank heavens. The woman isn’t actually heavy, but he still feels like he might faint.

” _Very impressive, Eddie._ ” The symbiote snickers. “ _Now throw hhher into the ocean._ ”

Eddie holds onto his frozen smile like a lifeline.

”No.”

Break it down, sort it out. Time to get rid of that last thread of awkwardness. Eddie promptly rotates her above his head and lets her fall back into his arms bridal style, though it’s not easy with her feet still snapping around. He’s already pretty strong – never been a roid head -- but the alien’s supernatural strength makes her feel like a pillow. He has to be careful not to _accidentally_ send her into the nearest building. A scattered round of applause greets him when he turns to face the crowd, some people outright skipping their crosswalk to get closer and snap some photos themselves. Stephie and Lauren cheer about hiring the strongest guy in California.

”You scared the bejesus out of me-“ Lauren moans, fanning her face. “Though I certainly ain’t complainin’.“

”Come on, come on, one more, this is so funny.” Stephie wheezes, waving him on as the team enabler.

Victoria curses _her_ out, which is a sign it’s definitely time to wrap it up. Eddie promptly sets the woman on her feet and scoops an arm to catch her by the waist in a light dip, pretending not to see her furiously flushed cheeks as they take one last round.

”What can I say?” Eddie says sidelong to the gathering. “I work out.”

When he finally lets Victoria go she wobbles in place and stares at him like she’s still not _entirely_ sure whether or not she should scream her head off and get him arrested on the spot. Eddie tugs up her loose dress strap and pretends to dust her off, even though any and all blemishes on _this_ woman were of the hidden kind.

"Ha, sorry about that. Got a, uh, background in photography and I just couldn't help myself." The world’s colors are fading back to normal, but, _damn_ if the red on Victoria’s face hasn’t changed one bit. “I mean, it’s your first time here, right? Gotta be more memorable than dime-a-dozen tourist spots.”

Victoria slowly, deliberately knots her arms together. His stomach turns into a nice little pea at the furious ass-chewing in her eyes, though his guardian angels come in the form of Stephie and Lauren promptly asking him to pick _them_ up and toss _them_ around. That’s a point to indirect peer pressure and petty jealousy, because the blonde composes herself and goes through a visual change so quick he’s not entirely sure _she’s_ not possessed with a shapeshifting alien monster.

”…I’m just… _really_ glad you didn’t drop me, Mr. Brock.” Victoria pats him with a hand he’s secretly pleased to see is still a little shaky.

”’Course not.”

Eddie gives in – mainly because the possibility of a higher paycheck for novelty is doing a lot to keep him from throwing up right now -- and lifts and tosses about Stephie and Lauren in similar fashion. He cuts it when some lady he’s never seen asks him to deadlift her kid _and_ her dog, which is just asking for trouble. After that it’s time for the dine and dip, except they’re skipping the restaurant and heading right on back to the hotel where he’s going to have to act out whatever spicy vanilla fantasy that passes for kinky where they come from. Fuck, his stomach is _killing_ him (“ _Us._ ”, slimy corrects). They invite over two friends who live in the area to hang out, which means he’s going to be a party host on top of the tour guide. Stephie assures him they’ll be enjoying some ‘damn good food and blunts’, breaking out the drinks in the mini-fridge.

He may have already gotten seven lungful’s worth today, but something feels like a second shoe about to drop, and he asks for a few minutes to step out for air. …Ah. There’s that gift horse, again. Eddie tugs at the front of his shirt and considers he might just have forgotten what it’s like to _not_ be a poor, crazy, drunk wreck that never does anything right.

” _Any longer to wait and III will chew off this door._ ” The alien grumbles in moody red and brown. Eddie tries to recall that phrase Miles loved to say when he was in hard agreement.

”Big same.” It might be tempting fate here, but honesty was the best policy. “By the way, thanks for behaving today. Didn’t even have to tell you to not force me to eat a tire or something.”

” _III was certainly tempted when yyyou were toying around with a fraction of ooour combined strength instead of eating. There have been hints of the other. III have been sniffing and licking this atmosphere for a thicker trail_.” Eddie stands up straight at that. Holy shit, goopy is actually getting a signal now? “ _Though yyyou have been a savory bundle all this noisy while. Yyyou preen for the attention of kin and III feast like a beast_.”

”Is…that a roundabout way of saying you find me delicious?”

” _When have III ever been roundabout?_ ”

Huh. Now _that_ was a cause worth celebrating. Eddie throws an ear over his shoulder; by the sounds of it the girls’ friends have arrived. If only to delay the inevitable he decides to call Flash back real quick and catch up on that belated apology for snapping at him that day. They haven’t been chatting as much as he’d like lately, so it’s great to he’s forgiven _weeks_ ahead of schedule.

” _Whatever, man. It’s nothing._ ” He still sounds grouchy, but it’s a particular brand of soft grouchy even he can’t hide over the line. “ _Might still punch you in the balls, anyway. You going to be at the Center this weekend?_ ”

”’Course. Not sure when, though. Why? They need a helping hand?” Eddie glances over his shoulder through the window again to make sure he’s not being missed yet. Stephie is lighting up and Victoria’s soaking up the center of attention, tossing her blonde hair every which way. He’s in the clear for now.

” _Pft, more like a little bit of hope, right. Madison is updating the Center’s emergency evacuation procedures. I’m going to make sure it’s accessible to everyone, got my paper right here._ ”

“Ah. Good, good. Emergency protocols don’t mean jack shit if only half the place can use it.” Now given a moment to breathe Eddie leans on the railing and admires the skyline. Nothing like a fifth-story porch to make him hate the motel’s shitty excuse for a view. “Miles doing all right?”

” _What? Oh, he hasn’t shown up. School stuff, probably. Busy kid. Smart kid. Can you believe he skipped a grade? Bilingual, too? He’s gonna go places, let me tell you._ ”

Eddie scratches at his meticulously unshaved chin, tentatively good mood drifting off with the breeze. …Hasn’t _shown up?_ The hell did that mean? Kid was crazy dedicated to his extracurriculars. Fit in pretty well with the Center’s activity, as well as he could with that disorder rattling him 24/7. Maybe he should sit him down for another talk. God, he _knew_ he wasn’t telling him something important at Dizzy Street! He opens his mouth to ask how many days he’s been gone, but Flash is right back on his bullshit, rambling about how the Golden Community Center needs more security.

“ _I keep sayin’ we need to set up an underground bunker when the city goes to shit, but they keep tellin’ me I’m paranoid, and we just go back and forth until Madison or Susan tells us to shut the hell up. ‘It’s a waste of funds’. No, we need to just come up with some art project for the kids, like scrapbooking is gonna teach them any life skills. Yeah, put macaroni art on your resume! Perfect use of funds, those same kids who think I’m the shitty grouch of the place will thank me later, I’ll count down-_ ”

”But you _are_ paranoid, man.” Eddie snorts.

His skin suddenly gets all funny, like upside-down goosebumps. A second later two hands press over his face and turn everything dark. Lauren coos in his ear about how the party’s ‘only getting started’, a line he wouldn’t put in his _worst_ submissions.

”Ah, sorry, sweetheart. I normally don’t keep my phone on during work, but I got this friend…” He starts, settling back against her in a way that’s _just_ chaste enough not to cross a line and just suggestive enough to get her turning into a radish. Ha. With all this build-up he could get a side gig as a ghostwriter for horror novels.

” _The fucking hell I am! Listen the fuck here. You almost got hit by that Polish satellite, then that statue got fucked up and nobody knows who did it, it’s like the San Fran plague up in here. I couldn’t even make this shit up if I wanted to. Plenty of good goddamn reason to be losing what little hair I got left…wait, wait, stop, where are you? Fucking shit, Eddie, are you at a goddamn job right now?_ ”

”He sounds mad.” Lauren giggles. Flash’s voice could be heard from space.

”Yeah, he usually is.”

” _Oh, fuck you._ ”

He hangs up. Eddie just texts him the apology this time, then goes back inside to finally wrap this night up proper. They may be bougie, but they’ve got great taste in food: local seafood tacos with what looks like a _dozen_ sides. Eddie’s in _heaven_. Food they paid for was also food he didn’t have to pay for. It’s the little things. He just hopes they don’t mind if he has an appetite.

”Jesus fuck, you can really pack it in.” One of their friends says, promptly getting a shove by Lauren who not-so-subtly nudges another portion his way.

It’s not a bad party, even though the symbiote keeps ‘gently reminding’ him not to drink. His shoulder angel has switched shifts with a PG devil. Lauren offers him a pink margarita that’s probably more expensive than his monthly rent. Oh, he wants _nothing_ more than to give it a test sip. It hasn’t been easy not being able to drink ever since hacking up his guts into the toilet. It’s just a matter of time ‘til the withdrawal headaches get the better of him. He waives off their attempts to get him smashed with some nonsense about a weak heart and ‘cutting back’. Stephie’s the most disappointed. Not coincidentally, she’s also the heaviest drinker.

”Here I was hoping you’d get drunk enough to kiss a guy.”

Eddie smiles sweetly and leans nice and close, even though he’d rather kiss a cloud of car exhaust.

”Why, you don’t want me to kiss _you?_ ”

Sure enough, he’s gotta follow through. He tries to think of England when she goes straight for the kill and kisses him on the mouth. At least it tastes like pot. It’s in the middle of complimenting Victoria’s perfume and making a good-bad pun about Victoria’s Secret he feels something…strange.

It’s just a funny pitch to his stomach, at first. Probably a little excitement from the party shifting from ‘casual mingling’ to ‘okay, time to send the tagalongs home, bye-bye now’ to ‘let’s reenact the filthy lyrics of this club song in real-time and take a grainy video of it.’ The gals preen over his tattoos at first, playing the usual guessing game of where he got them and why. Then they engage in a little play tug-of-war, which means he has to find a way to make them _all_ seem like his favorite. Easier said than done, because exactly none of them are.

Then a series of sick shivers trickle up his spine to tighten his scalp as surely as if someone was digging their nails into his _hair_.

”All this time and you haven’t taken your shirt off? Two out of _ten_ , Mr. Brock, two out of _ten_ -“ Stephie is slurring, already on her fourth fruity whats-it.

”Stop, don’t be _weird_ -“ Lauren laughs, having been recording on her phone for the past ten minutes. He’s opening his mouth to tell her to turn that off and give them all some privacy-

-and the hotel room starts hazing a rich, dark red. The clean blue and white interior design switches from standard ocean décor to a goddamn darkroom. The glow from the outside porch isn’t yellow now, either, now a bright blue that leaves purple blocks of light all over the carpet. The women are varying shades of hot pink and orange, puffing colors into the air with every word. For a few seconds Eddie just sits and stares and blinks. Then he tries to sit up…and can’t. He tries to open his mouth and talk…and he can’t. He can’t…

…do _anything_.

” _ **Finally.**_ ”

-and he’s hopping off the bed, yanking open the sliding door to the porch and jumping off the railing.

”Eddie?!”

” _Mr. Brock!_ ”

He hits the ground – _somehow still alive after that drop_ – and bursts into a full-tilt run that would put an Olympic sprinter to shame, booking it toward _something_. No matter how much he tries to will his body into _not fucking doing that_ it doesn’t work: it’s like he’s in the driver’s seat, his body one of those ridiculous anime mechs Miles diatribes about and his brain the hapless pilot. Eddie watches in vague horror as the world speeds past him in a fast-forward miasma of color. They go straight through Chinatown, leaping over fruit stands and diving through crowds. Then they’re in North Beach. Then they’re in-wait, how far are they _going?!_

” _Finally!_ ” Eddie cries, except it’s not him, it’s the goddamn symbiote crowing to all and sundry through his mouth and out into the open air without a care in the world. “ _Yyyou took yyyour sweet time!_ ”

A strange color – _is_ it a color?! – bursts in his mind, a sensation that feels like a memory, but it’s not a memory, and _fuck_ , he just wants to get off this ride!

’ _ **Stop!**_ ’ Eddie’s scream comes out as just a quiet thought in his own head. His own _head!_ ‘ _What the fuck! Where are we going, just stop!_ ’

” _Calm, Eddie. This was our agreement_.” It soothes, and he feels his face stretch into a toothy grin. “ _The other has been found. III will be out like a light soon_.“

Eddie leans back in the armchair of his body and watches the show. …Okay. Review time. He survived jumping off a five-story building without so much as a scratch on him. Even worse, he had a good job go straight down the crapper. Now the symbiote is leaping clear over a young woman’s head to fall down three full flights of concrete stairs leading toward a busy intersection. Someone behind him screams.

' _Big same.'_   He whispers.

” _Better than yyyour precious flaps of fake skin?_ ” It laughs.

His body rolls like a Hollywood stunt double, bounces back up and continues the sprint in one fluid transition. …Okay. Even terrified out of his wits, this is pretty goddamn neat. For a few minutes literally nothing in the world has been able to get in the way, or even _slow them down_ , and just that thought alone spikes through the terror and has him feeling something just shy of euphoric.

” _There ttthey are._ ”

They’re at…Pier 7? Oh, hell in a basket, how far did he _run?_ He tries to calculate the miles in his head as his legs screech to a halt. His shoes are probably smoking. Despite the thriving weekend activity they strong-armed through there’s hardly anyone on the docks. It’s either dining hour or there’s some nearby venue sucking up all the attention. Fuck, what he wouldn’t give right now for some soul-sucking, dime-a-dozen reporting gig where he could investigate the latest sub-sub-genre music trend. Even if it is a crazy miracle he ran over a dozen blocks at top speed and is panting like he’d just jogged to the grocery store.

His eyes crane up to the sky, studying the churning, rotating mix of colors turning what should be a plain gray-blue into a rainbow diorama. The other…

…isn’t there.

There _is_ a family, though. Five people, to be exact, with the colors thickest just feet above their heads. A middle-aged couple, a pair who appear to be grandparents and a tiny dusty-haired kid who can’t be over the age of eight. For a second the symbiote and his colors collide: one big, confused blue-brown. They’re right here, yet the signal the symbiote was tracking like a hound is still muddled. Which one’s the other, then?

”What is this-“

Something about their connection is weakening at the sight, because Eddie’s voice bleeds out of the symbiote’s rasp, hoarse with tension. “Hold on, where are they-“ Whatever was holding him down seems to be lifting, too. He sways as blessed control settles back into his limbs. “Okay, okay, holy shit-“ …Then it comes back in typical sledgehammer fashion. “ _Yyyou will wait!_ ” Eddie twists, trying to wriggle out of the vice- “No, fuck, I told you no-“ His lips peel back in a snarl. “ _Our agreement is not **finished**_.”

Today’s the day he graduates POV 101. The family is watching him in an equally confused cluster. The kid, especially, is staring at him with an expression so baffled it’s almost comical. Then someone speaks.

” _Come now, mind yyyour host. Ttthey are yyyour everything_.”

It – _they_ – stop mid-argument. Eddie’s body turns around. Fuck, he lost control again! His Go-Pro vision swerves to the elderly woman, watching him like he knows him, even though they’ve never met before.

” _It’s temporary_.” Eddie’s mouth grumbles. The damn thing sounds almost _churlish_ about it. “ _III have tended to hhhim carefully._ ”

It goes from 0 to 100. One minute they’re all watching the sideshow act. The next they’re bulling into his personal space, patting his arms and pinching at his face like he’s a kid at Christmas dinner. All save for the boy, that is, who stands off in the back holding an octopus toy and a still confused expression. To his shock the symbiote doesn’t use his mouth to tell them to piss off six ways to Sunday. Just stands there and…takes it. A boat calls in the distance, but the only noise he’s focusing on is that weird echo chamber coming out of all their mouths.

” _Hhhe is alert, yet sickly._ ” The old lady is still speaking, tugging down one of his eyelids with a thumb. “ _A decent flux of red, quite a lot of violet. Black and white in ready supply. Few hues blend. So yyyou’ve chosen contrast over blur. Surprising, for yyyou, but not entirely unexpected…_ ”

” _III have done mmmy best with what III have._ ” It mutters, opening its mouth and letting the old lady look inside. The fuck was the alien’s other, a dentist?

” _Did yyyou call?_ ” The old man asks.

” _No!_ ” He stresses, waving his hands wildly. The symbiote hasn’t quite figured out – or cared – about subtle human gestures, and this would be funny if it weren’t so surreal. “ _No, we would never, not even this far, not even to bring them to this filthy place-_ “

” _Never call._ ” The old man whispers. “ _Not once, not ever, with what we’ve seen and what we know_.”

” _III didn’t call. III sifted through the planet’s slurry and learned and watched and waited, as expected of mmme._ ” His finger rises to view and points at the group. “ _III deserve an explanation. Why do yyyou have multiple hosts? Where are yyyou? Where is the ship?_ ”

“ _The hosts are…_ ” The middle-aged woman starts, then holds her chest and coughs. “ _Yyyour host is…_ ”

She slumps forward. Eddie’s arms catch her like she weighs nothing and hurriedly lays her down on the ground. A sharp, yellow note of shock fills the air. Another _thud_ to their right: the middle-aged man has followed suit. Then another. Then another. All but the poor kid…who’s starting to cry. Eddie’s not sure if it’s the confusion or the lack of bond, but he’s suddenly feeling his own fingers and toes again.

”Hey, hey, shh, it’s okay-“ He never thought he’d be so happy to use his own goddamn voice box. “Kid, they’re fine, they’re fine, calm down-”

They’re not fine. Nothing about them all being possessed by an alien, then dropping like flies and laying on the dock in some collective stroke is _fine_. Eddie immediately drops to his knees and pats fingers from neck-to-neck, relieved when he gets weak, but recognizable pulses. He yells down at them and tries to jog _any_ of them awake, as if their kid bawling isn’t noise enough. The middle-aged woman mutters something. He takes her by the shoulders and gives her a gentle shake. She twitches. Her chest rises with what seems to be a deep breath..

…and a thick, red line oozes out of her mouth.

”… _What?_ ”

It’s not blood. It’s way too thick. Eddie leans on his heels and watches the goo dribble down her cheek to puddle thickly around her head. It’s coming out of her nose. Her _ears_. Then it… _moves_. Thin tendrils lift from the wood in stringy tree roots, straining to tug free and too weak to do more than wriggle, twist…and die. Eddie rises to his feet, moving in a slow, horrible circle at the bodies around him. Everyone else is twitching the same way. Bleeding that same bloody _wax_. One after another, stretching out, shivering, dying. A voice calls out in the distance, a faint yelling that gets louder by the second.

”What the fuck?” Eddie grinds nails into his palms until the skin pops, trying to wake himself up. ”What the hell. What the hell. What the hell. What the hell. What the hell.“

The kid is _screaming_ now. Screaming bloody fucking murder and sobbing snot all over his shirt, octopus toy on the ground and long forgotten. He wants to comfort him. He just can’t walk. His body is his own now, but horror is rooting him to the spot as sure as ankle weights. Eddie stares at the shuddering, leaking bodies, hands raising up to hold his hair, panting with panic.

”Goopy, buddy, slimy, help me out here, you need to explain this, you need to explain-“

The yelling has reached the pier. Screaming. _Shrieking_. Voices ringing his head, people being tortured, gurgling out _death_ , and it won’t stop, he can’t make it stop. Eddie covers his ears with his hands, claws at his face, hunching his torso down at the ground in some desperate attempt to block off the howls with his curling body. He wants to scream back, but he can’t breathe, his throat is full of splinters, his mouth is full of tar, it’s

” _Make it ssssssssssxxxxzzzzxxxzzzzxxxx z x z x z x x x x x x_ ”

The sudden silence hits like a punch.

Eddie opens his eyes, blinking back stars. The family is still on the ground…but the red wax is gone. His hands and face are strangely wet. Two sounds rise to the top of his attention: the call of seagulls and the thin, exhausted whine of a kid that doesn’t have any tears left.

”H-Hey, it’s okay, kid, I’ll call a…” _Yyyou can’t call._ “…phone an…an ambulance…” _Never call._ “I’ll…they’re fine, they’re alive, okay? Breathing, breathing, see, just…”

The commotion was loud enough to bring passerbys over down the dock. They’re doing that hesitant tip-toe of determining what to do in real-time. Eddie waves them over, then grimaces at the sight of his hands. Blood. Is it his? Someone else’s? No, it’s…his. It’s his. He flexes his fingers and watches the deep gouges stretch, then clenches them to stop flow. Why did he…

Two people he barely registers in his haze are talking to the kid. Another is trying to talk to him, his ears are ringing. He tries a few gulping breaths to fight back the nausea. It doesn’t work. Eddie coughs and swallows into the crook of his elbow a few times, feeling his dinner moving up and down his sternum. He shoves a hand in his pocket and fumbles for his phone, as best he can with his slippery grip, then gives up and fixes his mouth to ask them to call 911. They tell him they already have. He thinks they’re asking him if he’s okay.

”No, no, I’m not-“ He smiles and scratches at the strange stinging sensation on his face. “I’m fine, yeah, I’m fine, the kid, he needs help.”

There’s a crowd now. He can slip away unnoticed. There isn’t a scratch on the family and the kid is probably old enough for an accurate anecdote. No, right now he’s more worried about-

”-your damn promise! Broke it over one leg like a fucking tree branch! You said…God…you said you wouldn’t take me over again-“ He pauses and covers his mouth, smearing blood on his face in the process. He doesn’t want to keep besmirching the good Lord’s name, but no other word comes close right now. “Ugh. God. _God!_ ”

” _That…_ ” It’s a weird, pale shade he has no idea what to call. “ _…was not supposed to happen._ ”

Oh, fuck _that_ precious little hard-won admission! He’s ready to detail stipulations that would make a seasoned attorney’s ass pucker, if he doesn’t just reach both hands into his own chest and tear the goddamn thing out and be _done with it_. It booted him out of a job he needed to pay _rent_ , dragged him across several districts and for what? So he could get a front-row seat to the breakdowns he’ll be having for the next decade and a half? He can’t pay the bills with fucking nightmares! Eddie is so furious he doesn’t even know what to do with himself, meaning he catches on far after the fact his head has been filled with a dark blue the entire time.

A lost, chilled, _remorseful_ …blue.

”What?” He snaps. It doesn’t reply. “Goopy, what?”

” _III_...” Its voice is so wispy he almost confuses it for the wind kicking up from the ocean. “ _…don’t understand_.”

”The fuck do you mean ‘you don’t understand’?”

The blue grows darker. Almost black. If the goddamn alien was lost then he was in a whole ‘nother reality of _what the shit_. Eddie huffs and rubs his face with his forearm, trying to think of a good excuse that could get him back into the party. Break it down, sort it out. He had a friend that got into an accident. It was an emergency at his main job that couldn’t be missed. Fuck, if this wasn’t going to blow back on Julie. His palms are still bleeding. He wipes them off and winces when he touches the claw marks on his face. Right, he forgot about those. Eddie looks down into a dirty puddle and recoils. He looks like he’s been mauled.

Eddie opens his mouth to ask…then slowly shuts it and watches his wounds press together and close, one-by-one. He looks down at his palms. It’s like nothing had ever happened.

…It _might_ just be saying sorry.

”…Quid pro quo.” He waits for the symbiote to finish turning into a thick letterman jacket with a big fat FU on the chest – who knows what happened to his other ‘coat’ – and bundles his hands into his pockets, storming off into the night. “Quid pro _fucking_ quo.”

* ~ - ~ *

”You _sure_ you don’t want a slice?” He puts on his best whine. “Oh, come on, us and Darryl were supposed to play cards tonight. Even Sophie was thinking of coming over!”

”Tch, Sofia doesn’t hang out with anyone but her kid and her needles. Sorry, candy lips. Last-minute hook-ups don’t exactly care about epic evening plans.”

Iris and Julie are dressed to the nines. Probably a higher paying client _or_ just a client they liked, with all that fancy eyeshadow they got on. Julie doesn’t really bother with her hair, short as it is, but Iris clearly just took out her rollers, and her locks are bouncing with every twitch of her head. She wouldn’t be out of place in a 1930’s centerfold. Prettier than Victoria and her goons, at any rate.

”Besides. We’re not going to lose weight eating _that_ shit.” Iris sighs, clicking her mini-mirror shut. Julie squints suspiciously.

”Wait, Charles, hold on just a minute here. Aren’t you always going on about a healthy diet, sir?”

Eddie puts on an award-winning smile, wishes them good luck and shuts the door. He looks down at the extra large box. A huge pepperoni and veggie pizza. Kinda reminds him of college…except he’s not sharing it with three roommates.

”Just one roommate.” He snorts to himself as he reaches for a slice and wolfs it down in three bites.

Julie won’t find out yet that Victoria also called him a ‘fucking psycho’ in their five-paragraph text message, but he’ll enjoy the fantasy of a finished workday for a little while longer. Some family drama he’s never seen plays on one of the motel’s few free channels to blare the emptiness from his room as he eats and browses online. He thinks this is what people with periods experience: their stomach less of a place to digest food and more a black hole sucking in everything in sight. Pizza may be starch and processed bullshit, but after his seventh slice it’s kind of ridiculous he’s only just _now_ starting to feel full.

”Pizza and chocolate.” He mutters around a mouth full of garlic breadcrust. “You’re like my very own period, slimy.”

” _How insulting_.” It croons. “ _III may just make yyyou eat that box_.”

Eddie scoffs. Better than a fucking dead _pigeon_ , at least. Two hours of damage control and stress cleaning what little shit he has and they’re thankfully staying on the same page. It could just be the fact he didn’t drink any liquor and didn’t kick it out of his body, but, still.

”Actually, it’s a pretty badass compliment. Bleeding for days on end isn’t easy.”

” _III doubt that. Leaking is very easy for yyyou creatures. How yyyou stay together is anything’s wonder_.”

”Trust me, it’s not. Having a period once a month for decades, being hungry all week long, moodier than a teenager, turning into a monster when not sated…” He snorts. “Mary would’ve smacked me for that. Actually…speaking of which, you said that we could turn into something not like this or any galaxy, right? What does that _look_ like, anyway?”

” _Likely a particularly toothy exaggeration of yyyour spongey, bipedal kin_.”

”So…Bigfoot?”

Eddie shows the symbiote funny videos on his laptop, because the depression hasn’t quite left the evening. It gets a real kick out of a cat trying and failing to jump on a kitchen counter, snickering pops of pink and red. Then he checks his e-mail. Still the probably snide, callous _or_ put-upon unread from his father. Still the draft he keeps waffling back and forth for his ex. Still nothing from Mary, which has him a little worried at this point. He should call her. His most recent e-mail makes him sit up straight and nearly send the computer right off his lap.

_You still in the area? We should grab a coffee or whatever it is San Franciscans do to shoot the shit. This city is a fucking nightmare but a friendly face will help it all go down._

” _Ha!_ ” He whoops. “Hell, you’re not wrong.”

A pissy _thump-thump_ from below tries to put a damper on his mood…but it doesn’t, because _fuck them_. He can hear the guy’s voice so clearly. That disaffected drawl when in polite company, plus the light accent he was always trying to stamp down and only let loose around close friends (what few he bothered to make). They used to tease each other over that. Eddie’s mushmouth and Nicolas’s Guatemalan roots going toe-to-toe for top spot. He’d wanted to contact the guy ever since finding out he was swinging by for work, but it feels so much more special to be reached out to first.

_I’m going to be here a little longer than planned to meet with The Chemtrail Council. Don’t ask. It’s a long story. My schedule’s pretty booked all weekday afternoons, but I can squeeze in a Friday visit if you’re free. If not, weekends work fine._

The Chemtrail Council? Well, if _that_ wasn’t hot shit. They’ve been a local competitor of the Life Foundation for years now. Where the latter was constantly funneling any and all money to space programs to find life beyond the stars, TCC was doing their best to reverse pollution and get a few companies sued in the process. He had to write an article once about their political feud, though it never saw the light of day. They both must be having a _field_ day with the remains of that spaceship, if there was any.

_You still publishing incriminating articles detailing the eventual arbitration shitstorm major corporations will face if they ignore human rights? Whatever, I’ll ask if we meet up. Take it easy. -- Nicolas_

Eddie rubs rare sweat off his nose and ignores the ice in his heart. …Another second chance. Answering e-mails used to be part of his morning coffee routine and this feels…like less than a month ago, life constantly yelling in his ear and threatening to grab him by the nape of his neck and slam his face into the pavement. It’s still not entirely sunk in, _being_ here and not in a casket. For a few minutes he sits and watches the screen, the words floating into semantic satiation limbo. Break it down…sort it out.

_Hell in a goddamn basket! You’re in San Francisco? Of course we need to meet up!!! My schedule is pretty flexible, man. I can do Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Whatever works!!! -- Eddie_

He types up his cell number at the end, then tries to think of which nickname to use in the farewell. Everyone got a new handle in Eddie’s life – it’s just how he rolled – but Nicolas had a few. King Nicotine. M&M. Nic. Another nervous chill in his chest. Eddie slaps himself.

” _Ow._ ” The symbiote growls.

This _isn’t_ like Anne or Tanaka. He’s a friend he hasn’t seen in a while and that was a one-night stand that they already agreed not to talk about it and none of it is _awkward_ , actually. Fuck if those good looks haven’t gone anywhere, though. He’s still got those tired eyes that look like they’re one blink away from a sudden coma, which means they’ll have to compare eyebags, but his black hair is thicker. Thick enough to tumble curls over his brows and poke out every which way. There’s also this handsome line of stubble around his jaw that ages him _just_ right and, judging by his lone social media (group) photo, he seems to have traded his thrifty pullovers for peacoats. God, it’s crazy how much people could change in just a few years.

Eddie glances at the giant, nearly empty pizza box beside him. Yeah, no kidding.

” _Yyyou want to bundle with hhhim_.” It drawls. He can tell when the alien is ‘watching’ and when it’s got its attention elsewhere. This entire time has felt like a neighbor’s cat staring through a window at a bird. “ _Attempt yyyour kin’s paltry symbiosis and spew color_.”

How the hell can something as basic as _fucking_ sound patently bizarre?

”Technically, we already…did.” He snorts. The symbiote says nothing, instead mushing around a self-satisfied cherry red and an intrigued violet, undercut with this weird little dash of hot green beneath it all he can’t quite place. “Also, for the love of sin, just call it sex.”

” _Very well, Eddie._ ” Its chortle almost makes him smile, which he fights back, since it’s had enough fun playing around with his body and he wasn’t about to enable it. “ _Hesitance over this, of all things. None over yyyour boy_.”

”My boy? What boy?” An exaggerated image pops in his head of slumped shoulders and a skittish brown gaze. “…Miles?”

” _A mess. Words on yyyour tinker toys fill yyyou with a toxic yellow, but a cluster of mutating hues only makes yyyou plum. Perhaps stupidity and bravery are the exact same hue here and III’m slow to the uptake._ ”

”Jesus, I’m following you even less than usual. I mean, he had a lot of funky colors around him, but the kid’s an anxiety ball. Figured that was the long and short of it.” Eddie grabs his remaining slice – already down to his last one -- and thinks back to the arcade. “…That was a _lot_ , though. Could barely see him through all that.”

So much for happy pizza night. Eddie feels the familiar drain of an overdue study session hanging over his head as he ponders the implications of the alien’s arrival and all the weird shit he’s seen since. Learning about the environment’s weird colors and what they mean has been a side-project he didn’t even ask for. It’s not _too_ big of a leap to think the colors the symbiote uses to communicate to him might have something to do with the colors that puff out of people and sweat off their bodies, but for all he knows he’s making a chromatic fallacy here.

”So…okay. What are you trying to tell me? If we’re just talking shop about nervous wrecks that’s nothing. I mean, you’re in my body. It’s practically a crash course on how shitty brains can get.” He sucks garlic dust off his fingers. “Lucky you, you didn’t even have to pay lab fees.”

Eddie’s been feeling a lot of those subtle sensations people always attribute to ghosts or divine intervention. That sense of something being _off_ , but being totally unable to put a finger on it. This sensation feels like someone sneaking through his shit behind his back.

” _…There’s nothing._ ” It sounds… _weirdly_ surprised. That alone puts him on-edge. The alien was always acting like everything was beneath it, even when it had no idea what the hell it was talking about, and this tone is about as out-of-place as sincerity in a senator. “ _Nothing in yyyour mind III can find on these human-like deceptions. Yyyou are more clueless than yyyou look._ ”

Eddie scowls. ...Yeah, he’s learning more about color _combinations_ , too. Not just secondary shades like green or orange, but the colors that show through underneath. A mosaic of meaning, if he takes the time to shuffle. Fuck, he’d be having a field day right now if he ever bothered to learn how to paint. According to the violet it’s still seriously curious, the salmon-orange amused – always laughing at him, in one way or another – but there’s also…more green. It’s not chuffed about its realization, nor is it really _disturbed_ , yet...something about it feels tense, anyway.

“Right, right, human-like things…” Eddie goes to close his tab…then _chokes_. “Hold up, wait, wait, wait, _stop_ …are you saying Miles isn’t _human?_ ”

He winces and crushes his eyes shut when a burst of pissy white-yellow pops right behind his eyes, a flash grenade going off in his skull.

” _ **Listen**_.”

”Okay, okay, _okay_ , I’m listening, Christ!”

The color fades, right with the pain. Eddie lets out a gusty groan, rubbing the rest from his temples with two fingers.

“ _…Yyyour kin lack so many hues. Even the sick ones, even the ones that inhale and exhale fervor. Yyyour Miles was seeping potential out of every yawning pore. A churning threat too erratic for even mmmy acute nose. When hhhe destroyed the toy box the hues ignited, coalesced, nearly thick enough to bite. Yyyou truly didn’t notice this?_ ”

He noticed. He just didn’t know what he was notic _ing_. What all these auras really meant was still mostly beyond his sphere of comprehension. It had something to do with emotions, maybe chemicals produced in the body, because Eddie Charles Brock was an alcoholic bum, not an _incompetent_. He could put together that someone looking pissed off and exuding a bunch of piss-brown was similar to someone being fidgety and letting off little spurts of off-white. The family they ran into were practically a color theory diagram. That grandma had been pink, red, this peachy-orange. The husband had been the exact opposite, all blues and browns. The kid a very, very pale green.

He’s just not getting why Miles is standing out here. He’d been radiating more color than a pride parade, but to go so far as to say something supernatural was the cause is totally bizarre. He was perfectly healthy! …Physically. Mental health-wise Miles was nearly as screwy as he was. Poor guy was so _upset_ that day, too. All that shit he’s had to bottle up for God knows how long. Eddie studies the color of his breath in the room. The color of a Dr. Pepper can.

’ _Eat your heart out, mood rings._ ’

“All right, slimy. Stop pulling my leg. Why the hell wouldn’t Miles be human, huh?” Eddie cranks his mind to overtime on a deadline to follow this thought train. “You think, maybe…your ship crash landing out of nowhere infected people? Got some radioactivity into the air?” It wasn’t all that close to his neighborhood, but this isn’t exactly usual stuff they’re dealing with. “Or are there just…things I wasn’t aware of until you enhanced my shitty senses?”

“ _Perhaps_.” Is its completely unhelpful, monosyllabic and dismissive answer, with an additionally uncaring pop of yellow-green. “ _If mmmy ship is to blame, then why don’t more humans have such a vivid aura, then? III have sniffed and searched and still found nothing similar in this putrid collective._ ”

Eddie opens his mouth to respond…then says nothing. …No. No, no, no, he doesn’t like this at all! That’s a kind of cruelty horror movie writers could only _dream_ of conjuring. Maybe this should be more exciting than he’s making it out to be – it means he wouldn’t be the only superhuman thing walking around – but he wasn’t so pathetically lonely he’d latch onto _this_ as inspiration. Miles was his nephew. Not that he’d ever say that out loud, but, well. That’s how he felt. _Has_ felt, not long after he was shoved at him at the Center with little more than a warning and a shrug. He’s a good fucking kid who deserves good fucking things. Now…this?

The world makes completely no sense whatsoever, so he slams a mental finger on the delete button. The alien’s just fucking with him. It’s blunt as a nail head, but it _has_ to be fucking with him.

” _Yyyou and yyyour denial. The other takes priority, but the remains of mmmy ship should be found once III regain full strength. How that does or doesn’t change this toxic orb will be seen. III figured yyyou would be accustomed to yyyour own powerlessness by now_.”

…So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?

“…All right. How about you.” He starts. “What’s up with all this? Why are you even here? Is the ship yours?”

He knows it doesn’t like being asked a thousand questions at once, which is his only claim to fame when it creates another mind-splitting migraine.

”Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck-_ ”

“ _Mmmy kin don’t construct galactic shells. It was from a previous host. Any other boundaries yyyou feel like prodding?_ ”

“Mmph. Ever have someone special in your life?”

“ _A vivid word, but yyyou subscribe it to so many. The contradiction of special and not contracts and beats inside yyyou_.”

“Sure, I’ve been around. Tried to settle, but it didn’t work out.” Time to change the subject. “…Your other had a bunch of hosts.”

“ _Not hosts_.”

”Not hosts?” God, he was getting a lot of practice in reading between the lines. “So, what, you not allowed to have more than one or something? I mean, we can be polyamorous-“

“ _We are not human_.” That blue churns into frustrated orange then back to blue then yellow-green- “ _When III find the other ttthey will explain this_.”

”Well, they better, because those people nearly ended up completely fucked. You didn’t answer my question, though. What about you, goopy?” Glimpses into its funky headspace has been few and far in-between, even as it was literally renting out the back of his brain.

“ _…Many. All unacceptable. No bond. No future. Just like yyyou and yyyours_.”

Eddie scoffs. He settles back and opens his mouth to refute…

…but, for once, he can’t.

What was there even to say? He loved Anne. He really, truly did. He would’ve done _anything_ for her, Hell or high water, rain or shine, because that’s what a good husband did. Maybe now that he’s got other things and knows he can’t have his old life back, it’s easier to look at it all from the seat of a chair. That, or right now’s a side-effect of viewing his body through a glass. Eddie hunches down tiredly. He’s so low on time and he’s been spending so much of it on something that wasn’t going to change. It suddenly hits him…that he’s been thinking of Anne in the past tense. He’d loved her. He didn’t… _love_ her.

“…Well. I…hope you find someone good for you, slimy. You’re a pain in the craw, but there’s a heart of gold in there somewhere. Way, way, way, way, way in there somewhere. Might need a metal detector.”

“ _A gold heart?_ ” Eddie slaps his forehead. Oh course that’d come off as an insult.

“No, no, no. A, uh…purple heart.” He scoffs. “A violet heart?”

“ _Wow._ ” It drawls, then sounds thoughtful. “ _The other…has a gold soul_.”

“You…believe in souls?”

” _Yyyou do, so yyyour word applies_.”

“You’ve mentioned your other a lot, but I don’t really know anything about them.” He scoffs. “Other than a night I really hope doesn’t haunt me in my sleep.”

It’s quiet for so long he’s sure it’s so pissed it doesn’t even bother telling him to shut up. That’d be a first. Then it seeps out of his chest into the room. Eddie shudders and holds himself. It would crawl around all over him, inside him, but…straight-up leave? He feels the sudden and all-encompassing urge to snatch it and shove it right back in. It floats to the very middle of the room and stretches out, forming a…sphere. It looks like the night sky.

“ _We have no name, though others have named us, with tttheir picture-prose and chemical markers. Individuality is yyyour boon and a disease to symbiotes._ ”

It starts taking on shapes he doesn’t recognize. One looks like some vague combination between a snake and a rhino beetle. The next is some sort of twisting knot that goes from the carpet all the way up to the ceiling in a ruler straight line. Then it tumbles down – _exactly_ like a loose rope – and twists again. Every attempt to categorize what he’s watching is more unsuccessful than the last. It’s blobs in a lava lamp, except much more graceful. A nest of moray eels being kicked up from the seabed, except with even _more_ life. Eddie rubs at his shoulders with both hands, hunching forward and gaping at the polychromatic display.

“… _Wow_.” He whispers. “What…the hell are all those?”

“ _Others on other spheres_.” It shifts again. “ _Mmmy other…on this sphere_.”

Its color brightens. He thinks again to an octopus, switching from inky black to red as a bloody nose.

“ _A symbiote of several ages and timelines unlike yyyours. Wiser than mmmee, stronger than mmme. Ttthey are emblematic of galactic potential and have taken it upon ttthemselves to see to it personally. Even mmmy own. Without ttthem III would be…_ ”

It doesn’t need to say it. The one-hundred foot drop in its voice is hint enough.

“…They’re special.”

It doesn’t answer. Just deflates and shrinks down to that weird not-quite-human shape, all lanky and bleeding out of the carpet a little above eye-level. Hell, this was much more than he expected to hear. Zero to one hundred. Eddie rubs at his shoulders again, starting to ache all over.

“So, uh, were you…bonded?”

“ _Symbiote cannot bond with symbiote_.”

“Okay. Why didn’t they act right, then? Because that was fucked up.”

“ _III don’t know_.”

“No, no, come on, don’t pull that on me. You know them, you’ve got to have some sort of idea.”

“ _That was not ttthem. Not in a way yyyou can comprehend_.” It snaps. “ _This planet is a choking miasma. III should have gotten a signal sooner than this. A stronger one. More consistent. It must be yyyour filthy atmosphere. Ttthey vanished, but ttthey are not…_ ” A pause. “ _…It’s the planet_.”

Sure. Okay. He doesn’t leave a paper unfinished. Just not in his nature. There are way too many paragraphs that needed to be stitched together. Too many missing sentences to stitch it all together before it’s worthy enough to slap on a desk.

“Don’t worry. We’ll find them soon. You got me in the meantime.”

“ _A host that regularly drinks hhhimself to death and tries to bond with every last flesh and blood and rock thing on the planet. III am the shape of good fortune_.”

…Well. Just because they were getting along didn’t mean it was suddenly _nice_. Eddie grabs the pizza box and trudges over to the kitchen to stuff it into the bin.

“Right, right.” He mutters, taking it back out and folding it properly so it can fit. “The whole possessing my body thing and making me run thirty blocks, _that_ was no big deal, but I’m a shithead for drinking.”

It’s almost time to take out the trash. Do chores and mundane stuff and get back to his usual tried-and-true failure routine. Eddie turns around…and goes stiff as a deer in headlights at the fanged face an inch in front of his nose. Not so much as a rustle or a _whisper_. He slowly leans back. It leans forward, right into his personal space. Not that they really had anything of the sort at this point, but it’s not even a centimeter away and pulling something dangerously close to a smile.

“ _Possession?_ ”

Eddie swallows. His back meets the wall by the doorjamb, doing his best to edge from from the teeth stretching so far they dapple down its neck.

” _Stop lying to mmme, Eddie_.”

Weeks ago it’d been this weak, watery little thing that wouldn’t fill an empty milk jug. Now it’s bigger. Heavier. Shimmering with life and staring him down with shiny white eyes.

“ _Such hungry pests, sucking in fiber and water, clinging and biting through unknown instinct to ravage yyyour own planet raw…and here yyyou stand, pretending yyyou aren’t hungry for this, too? III was yyyou, yyyou were mmme, and yyyour thoughts were bigger than this city_.” It dips down until it brushes the tip of his nose. “ _Do yyyou like feeling big, Eddie?_ ”

No. Yes. Maybe. His skin crawls as he tries to think of the right answer and any answer as he’s abruptly hyperaware of details he’s been trying to overlook. It’s been easier to view this entire surreal scenario when it’s in his chest. Even controlling him and sending him jogging halfway across the 415 he could just…put his perspective in an armchair. When it leaves him to drift about in the open air, though, coiling and twisting close enough to touch…that’s the exact moment it all stops feeling like a dream.

” _Or maybe…_ ”

The symbiote’s smile cracks, grazing the tips of its fangs over and around the jittering bob of his Adam’s apple.

” _…yyyou want to feel powerless in **another** way._ ”

Eddie doesn’t bother to wipe the sweat working its way down his hairline. It’s not breathing, but he can taste the air around it, this muted tang that settles right into the meat of his tongue and makes his heart _thump-thump_ unevenly.

” _If it’s any consolation…_ ” The mouth opens wide, until all he can see is black. “ _...yyyou’re not the only one who does_.”

He doesn’t even yelp when it sinks teeth into his throat, sinks into him, and-

-Eddie _sighs_.

… _Oh_. It’s like a good hit and a shot of vodka and a surprise $10 in his pants pocket all rolled into _one_. He slowly slides down the wall into a sitting position, hand moving in reverse up the expanse of his chest to hold and grip his throat. The colors in the room are a rich wine, delicious and _perfect_. A hundreds’ days worth of good exercise and sleep, sinking right into his bones. He doesn’t feel aching and empty anymore. In fact, he feels _so_ good he’s…

…hard as a rock.

Time for bed.

“Why don’t you try sleeping? It’s good for you.” He offers once the lights are off and his phone alarm’s set. “We get answers from our dreams.”

“ _III recall yyyou telling mmme dreams are ‘bullshit and nonsense’, Eddie. Care to e-lie-borate?_ ”

Eddie holds up a finger, then lets it drop. Fuck, it’s calling him out with puns now. Too bad he can feel its mildly surprised-and-confused orange-yellow beneath the red.

“What, you scared?”

A green sneer responds. Ha. It’s starting to get a little predictable. ‘ _The devil you know_.’, Eddie thinks. He goes to turn on the A/C for a few minutes and sighs when the hunk of junk just coughs at him. God _dammit_ , Deborah.

“Who knows, you might figure out what’s going on with your other. See, you’ll thank me come morning. …Mind turning into a blanket?”

* ~ - ~ *

…Another weird one. Eddie’s been having a _lot_ of those lately.

Of all the things he expected when syncing up with an alien life form…actually, he really shouldn’t have expected anything. He’s not in a kooky facsimile of The Gulf tonight, but on the surface of a bright, white moon surrounded by a rainbow galaxy. Eddie shoves his dream-hands into his dream-pockets and stares up at the biggest source of light. A planet. A sun. The symbiote’s home? He’s not sure. It’s like something out of a goddamn movie, but he’s seeing it play out in front of his own two eyes. The orb looks like it’s covered in hair. A trillion tiny lines stretching out, needles in a pincushion. He inches toward it with morbid curiosity. The buzzing grows louder.

The closer he gets the more he can see. It’s not hair…they’re arms. It’s not buzzing, either. It’s howling. So many voices layering on top of each other it doesn’t translate as a regular sound. Millions? _Billions?_ He can’t make out any words, but he can feel them, and they’re in agony. Screaming like those voices in his head, the ones that rose up when mucus blood was oozing out of the mouths and noses of unsuspecting everyday people…

…He doesn’t want to be here anymore. As if hearing his request a door appears somewhere in the distance, a tiny white square framed by a halo of light, and he’ll take it. He starts to run…

“ _ **WAKE UP!**_ ”

Eddie sits bolt upright in bed. His room is on fire.

“ _What the hell-_ ”

He flings the blanket off and bolts to the door. He instinctively grabs the knob, then hisses in pain and yanks back. Shit! He takes in a deep breath, three steps back, and-

-smashes through, hitting the railing and tumbling right over it.

” _FUCK!_ ”

Eddie hits the ground head on. He may be more durable than a diamond, but it doesn't make it _feel_ any better. With a groan he picks himself up off the wet gravel and sways to his feet to stare at the state of The Gulf. It’s raining, but not _nearly_ as hard as it should be. Fire is licking its way up his half of the building like it’s the middle of summer. He can feel theories pinging off in the back of his brain, but it’s muffled by the nauseating horror that’s clogging the air almost as much as the smoke. …Where was everyone? Was help on the way? Fuck. _Fuck_. He instinctively reaches for his phone and is relieved to find it in his pocket…then goes cold when he remembers literally everything else is back in his room.

Catching fire.

“Oh.” Eddie chuckles and reaches up to hold his hair in two miserable handfuls. “Okay.”

“ _Never sleeping again_.” The symbiote seethes. “ _We would have **burned**_.”

God, he doesn’t even have time to tell it to lay off. Fire is crackling into the black of night and Deborah is a complete shitshow. She’s barefoot like he is and screaming her head off at one of the firemen attempting to direct his co-workers _and_ calm her down at the same time. Fuck, he’s glad he didn’t say yes to Miles’s tearful request at the arcade. He couldn’t live with himself knowing he’d be indirectly responsible for his last day. Who else was left inside? He’d just ran (fell) out, instinctively, but he should’ve stayed and knocked on some doors…

He clutches his head again at the sight of Iris and Julie by the gates, bundled in their night jackets and looking eleven different kinds of shocked.

“ _Charles!_ Charles, over here-“

“What the _fuck_ happened, Charles, what the fuck is this-“

He jogs over. They hug him tightly, though Iris is the first to tug back and start squawking about how he smells like a barbecue pit.

“We just got back. Literally tugged the guy out of me when I got the text.” She doesn’t even bother to keep her voice down. Deborah’s screaming too loudly to hear. “Came as fast as we could-“

“Fucking things are in there and they won’t let me through, place isn’t even evacuated! I think that girl’s still in there, Jack was telling me how he tried to open her door, but it was locked-” Julie wheezes, covering her mouth when a breeze sends a blanket of smoke over their heads. “I don’t know where Dawn or Darryl are, I asked the firemen but they just keep telling me to stand back-”

…No. _No._

“Goopy. Goopy, listen to me. There’s gotta…” Eddie mutters, leaving just as one of the city workers walks up and asks them to give them some room, hands back in his hair and breathless with more than just exertion. “There’s gotta be something we can do.”

“ _We would die. III saved yyyour life, again, or are yyyou already so quick to neglect yyyour own wretched **pulse**?_ ”

“Didn’t you hear? Sofía’s in there! Dawn, Darryl, others!”

“ _What do yyyou care?_ ” It sneers. “ _Ssshe has been nothing but venom to yyyou_.”

“She’s got a goddamn _kid!_ We can’t just leave them in there!”

” _Ssshe isn’t like yyyour Miles or even yyyour creature comforts. Yyyou drink and yyyou run into fire, reckless thing, and would burn on behalf of what?_ ”

”It’s not right!” He yells, helplessly. “It’s not fucking right!”

“ _Surviving **is** right, Eddie!_ ”

“ _Then fuck that!_ ”

A flare of bright yellow lights up the parking lot and temporarily turns it into day. Not caution or irritation: a _shocked_ punch just south of pissed. Eddie balls his hands into fists.

“…I’m not exactly sunshine and flowers myself.” He hisses. “She’s an addict, okay? An addict and a single mother and poor as shit, I get it, and if people weren’t there to give me a helping hand when I was drowning in the bottle I might not even be here. That includes you, you miserable, oily fucking prick! You said you create heroes, huh? Well, a mother and her baby might be burning to death in that fucking fire and we can _do_ something about it. I accepted your little contract because I wanted to do more than just survive. If you just want to stand here and watch everything burn to the goddamn ground then _what good are you?_ ”

Deborah, the firemen, the tenants, they’re all staring at him. He doesn’t give a shit. Everyone here already thinks he’s off his rocker. Eddie pushes sopping hair out of his eyes, waiting for the one answer he needs or doesn’t need before he dives headfirst into the blazing inferno eating up his home.

“ _ **…Fine**_.”

Eddie jumps back as black spreads out of his damp shirt and down his arms faster than a shadow.

“Woah, hold on, what is this, what are we doing now-“ Fuck, it might be dark, but it’s not _that_ dark! “Hold on-“

One of the firemen starts to walk toward him, a resigned expression on their face. Eddie quickly ducks out of the motel sign’s neon toward the stairs, running up to the second floor with a frustrated _Hey!_ at his back.

“ _Yyyou will blister. III will keep yyyou covered._ ” His torso is covered in black alien armor, arms swollen and ending in long, clawed hands. “ _Go._ ”

Eddie tries the doorknob, because it’s worth a shot. It’s melted.

” _Break it!_ ” The symbiote snaps.

”I’m just _checking!_ ” He snaps back.

Eddie gives the smoke covering him from view a quiet thank-you, then drives one fist through it to snap the door like a cardboard box. The brief thrill of victory is out like a light when a waft of blistering air and smoke hit him head on. _Shit!_ The symbiote cringes, growing uncomfortably tight from where it’s still wrapped around his arms. Darryl is inside cursing up a storm and stuffing things into his arms. Judging by his still in-tact clothes he ran _back_ in to see what he could salvage and got stuck. Well, God and whatever plan he has is being put on hold. This isn’t how they’re going to go!

”C-Charles?!”

” _Get your ass outside, Dare!_ ”

Eddie grabs him and throws him over one shoulder, snatching his bag with the other and lumbering out of the flames into the cold, wet night. His timing was perfect: the man is lucid, but barely, struggling to stand on his own two feet. There’s no time to celebrate with Iris and Julie – screaming with relief and holding him upright between them – and he’s running back upstairs and inside before the firemen can corral him.

”What the fuck, is that guy _crazy_ -“

’ _Certified batshit._ ’, Eddie thinks.

Sofía is passed out on her kitchen floor. His eyes land on the needle by the bedside, but it’s nothing compared to the sight of her kid. Its blanket is on fire. Eddie’s stomach pitches up to his throat and threatens to fall out when he sees the state of its skin. Like a fucking-

“Oh, oh, oh, fuck, oh, no, no no _no-_ “ He reaches for it with his massive claws. The poor fucking thing, somehow still conscious in spite of it all- “Help me, _help me_ , what the fuck do I do?”

“ _IIIt will die. We need to grab the kin and leave now._ ”

“No, wait, listen. You healed me, you can heal them, right?” It doesn’t respond. “ _Right?_ ”

“ _Ttthey are not mmmy hosts_.”

“Who cares? Heal them!” Eddie doesn’t fucking have much more than his body. What little he does is literally burning the next door over. “If you don’t I’ll…I’ll fight you every step of the way. I won’t ever let you live this down.”

“ _We agreed to bring yyyour kin out of the flames! Yyyou’re a liar_.” It snarls, so vicious he feels his face contorting with the pressure. “ _Yyyou do nothing but lie and lie and lie!_ ”

“ _Well, I’m not lying!_ ”

The symbiote curses him and leaves his body so quick he staggers. It drapes over the child in a blanket and the shrieks muffle into nothing. Eddie gasps and lurches forward, a sudden loss of energy that lowers him to the floor. He claps a hand over his mouth and ducks his head low beneath the fog. His heart is palpitating painfully, counting each second with a meaty, off-beat arrhythmia. The carpet is so hot it’s starting to smoke even without the fire. Eddie coughs and scrubs at his streaming, stinging eyes. Come _on_ , slimy, hurry up-

-and the alien is seeping back out, a dark sweat thin and shiny and not at all like the black hole muck he’s used to. Eddie holds his arms out and it slides over him, slippery as oil, and he can barely cup it in his hands. Their strength is completely gone. He’s not even woozy. No, he’s filled with nothing but air, floaty and weak and barely holding on to consciousness. He picks up the baby and moves it into the crook of his arm – not a single burn left – then picks up the mother, tossing her over one shoulder. When he stumbles outside he vaguely considers it’s not a good thing he can’t feel the cold anymore.

“Help…” He wheezes, as loud as he can, but it barely comes out as a whistle from his lungs. “Kid…kid and… Sofía…”

He sets them on the ground as carefully as he can. They’re outside, in the light and away from the fire. They’ll get help. Eddie coughs and stumbles away, down the overhang where the fire hasn’t reached, unable to walk more than a few steps without wheezing. He’s not burned, but he feels sick, so sick. His skin keeps shivering and shrinking like it’s being rubbed with hot sand. It’s nothing compared to the nails on a chalkboard behind his eyes. Somehow he’s across the street, the fire’s smoke rising high over the silhouette of building tops, the alien’s voice shredding his brain.

“ _W r e t c h ! Y y y o u would burn mmme…use mmme…surrender mmme to the long dark…a host is a leech…a host is anarchy, a wretched gravity, yyyou filthy, deceptive, disgusting a n i m a l !_ ”

“W-We had to h-help-“ He grips the grass and coughs so hard he starts heaving, ribs grabbing his lungs and trying to make him vomit his kidneys. It’s nothing like his worst hangovers or withdrawals. He wants those _back_. “Th-They were g-going to die-”

Eddie gurgles on what little air he managed to get as rubbery black vines burst out of his chest and wrap around his neck. Its leering face is no longer smooth and dark, but bubbling and twisting into a wrinkled, oily reflection of him. Him with teeth, eyes bulging wide and white, screaming hissing death into his mouth. If the symbiote is turning into him, then _what does he look like-_

“ _This is no symbiosis_.” A squeeze, and the air is gone. “ **III should kill yyyou**.”

It won’t even have to try. He’s already falling apart. His nose is running with what could be snot, could be blood, is actually the meaty fluid that drained out of that family’s heads on the pier because it sticks to his chin, sticks to the ground and stretches viscous and thick. Eddie sinks his fingers into the black, grips it as best he can with it pushing and seeping over his hands and forearms, and pulls it close to hold it to his chest.

“ _s u r v i v e_ “ It grates, then _groans_ , howling wind in his ears. “ _y y y o u x x x z z z t o l d m m m e e t o s u r v i v e , b u t t x x x z z z x x x h e y x w o n z x z xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx x x x x x_ “

“…Hey. Hey, I won’t…I won’t let you die.” He mutters into the quivering mass. “Okay? Feed off me. Whatever III…whatever III got, whatever yyyou need, just take it. III got you. III’m here.”

The ground is cool and sweet again. He rubs his face against it for a second…then lurches to his feet, clutching his symbiote to his chest. It ripples with agony, tensing up beneath his fingers as thick as fat, then thinning, dripping between his fingers. Some of it hits the ground and stays. He doesn’t have time to scoop all of it up. He has…to go to the pack. Yeah. Yeah, they’ll…take care of them. It’s just…they might need to take the bus, because they’re melting. His skin sags like he’s two hundred years old, dripping fleshy puddles on the ground.

“III got yyyou. III’m here.” Eddie slurs as hhhis world goes up in a new fire of color, rising up to devour the stars, still walking, still moving through hhhis city to find somewhere warm and safe to lay tttheir head. “Feed off mmme. III’m here. III’m not going anywhere…”

_“…III’m here.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie’s trying to keep the ball rolling. He lands a very nice paying job with three out-of-state clients looking to enhance their weekend getaway with some arm candy and a personal tour. They prove to be an ordeal, slowly but surely trying even his impressive patience with bigoted viewpoints and pushy attitudes. Ever since the symbiote’s arrived he’s been acting more impulsive than usual, at one point snapping and nearly attacking one of them…only to catch himself at the last second and pass it off as a surprise photo opportunity. Things only get worse when the alien takes over his body and sends him on a high-speed chase throughout the city.
> 
> It turns out to be the least of his problems. The symbiote has _finally_ found its mysterious other, a fellow symbiote…who turns out to have _several_ hosts who seem unaware of what’s happening to them. They speak through a family of five, curious about its choice in host and repeatedly warning it not to ‘call’ so they remain undiscovered. The happy reunion doesn’t last, however, and all the hosts go into shock, bleeding out what looks like a symbiote’s remains and nearly making Eddie go crazy in the process.
> 
> The man is _this_ close to calling it quits…but his symbiote’s shock and confusion make him think there are other factors at play.
> 
> They return to the motel, eat and talk. Eddie is happy to set a meeting with a college friend of his…and is very _unhappy_ to find out Miles’s strange behavior at Dizzy Street is because he might not be human. The symbiote finally deigns to share a little about its other and their shared history, however abstract in its alien way, and in a debate about boundaries Eddie reaches the unsettling conclusion he’s starting to grow accustomed to the creature’s presence in more ways than one.
> 
> They both get a taste of heroism when the motel goes up in flames in the middle of the night, but it might end up being their first and last…
> 
> \--
> 
> Nothing like a bad cold to completely catch you off-guard and kick all your precious plans of fanfiction indulgence to the curb. Fell behind in work, side-projects, _going outside_ , then suddenly Venom is out and I haven’t uploaded in a month. Criminy.
> 
> Anyway. This is one big fucking chapter -- _roughly thirty pages_ \-- and I’m happy to finally be posting it. The following two will be a little shorter, if only because I’m not trying to cram quite so much. I hope you enjoy.


	8. Adulthood Getting You Down? Just One Click Could Change Your Life Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for discussions of an eating disorder, intrusive thoughts, mentions of police brutality, suicidal ideation and an explicit depiction of a suicide attempt.
> 
> Chapter Song—“Blanket Me” by Hundred Waters

 

_“Come on. From the top.”_

_“But we’re all the way at the top **already**.”_

_“Okay. True. But still.” His hands slide away. Miles tries to bite down on the whimper. It doesn’t work. “Come on. You know I won’t let you fall.”_

_Oh, come on. He’s said that nine times now. He’s gonna say it a tenth, like it’ll change anything. The only thing Miles can see past the criss-cross of white aren’t the car dots blinking back and forth across the bridge or the veins of the highway, but the exact shape, size and color of the splatter he’ll make when he falls to his inevitable doom. Michelle hasn’t moved from her spot by the trash can, sitting on the little brick square with the usual one ankle slung over one knee. She caps her soda, then waves up at him. Miles waves back, a tiny little flick of the very tips of his fingers, because if he even breathes too hard he’ll fall right off the edge of the building and land headfirst right in that bin._

_Hopefully._

_“Here, here. Just watch me again.” He’s extra soft when he pats his shoulder, but it still makes him squeak and flinch. “Sorry. Thing is, Miles, you’re always going to be a little scared. That’s good. I know it doesn’t sound good, but it is. It keeps you sharp. The trick is you just gotta ride the rest of the wave, too. Like this…”_

_Peter still doesn’t jump off the edge of buildings. Just takes a step forward like he’s going up stairs and tips over. Miles crouches on his belly and watches him fall…and fall…and fall…then spring right back up like a yo-yo, dipping down in a smooth arc straight out of an acrobat show. It’s always exciting and totally terrifying, even if this was the twentieth time since he’s seen it. Peter may always be hunched over a laptop or a book, but he’d fit right in at the Olympics. Michelle whistles and whoots, shooting up two thumbs when he does a triple backflip mid-bounce._

_Sheesh. He’s just showing off to try and make it look easy (or impress Michelle). It’s still fun to watch. Peter spins like a top, bounces from wall-to-wall in the alleyway crook like Mario. He can’t help it. The laugh comes right out. The panic shrinks into a little nervous pill in his stomach, then comes right back up when Peter wraps it up, whips back to the roof and lands next to him again._

_“…I’m sorry, Peter.” Miles covers his face and slumps back onto the concrete, eyes stinging with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I know I said I’d try, I’m just...”_

_”…scared, yeah. I know.” He squeezes his shoulder and gives him a gentle shake. “Hey. Hey! Don’t worry about it. I don’t really want you falling and denting someone’s car, anyway. I don’t make nearly enough to pay for the damages.” He pulls a face. “Though you would be just fine. Super-toughness and all that.”_

_Miles huffs a tiny little laugh. He was almost as cheesy as Mr. Brock._

_”Super-toughness sounds super lame, Peter.”_

_Michelle doesn’t hold back at the best of times. She tells Peter he’s a show-off when they shimmy down the fire escape. …Well. Miles shimmies, anyway. Peter just hops off and acts like his ankles totally don’t hurt when he lands._

_”He’s right. Super-toughness sounds like something a school counselor would say. An elementary school counselor.” She adds, bopping him in the shoulder. Peter whines and pretends to be hurt. “Shut up. How do you ace all your science courses but completely flub making up titles?”_

_She treats them both to ice cream. When Miles mumbles about it she tells him he doesn’t have to earn every little thing, and he tries not to smile too much as he nibbles away at his ice cream sandwich. Being a coward works up an appetite. Peter and Michelle sit close to each other and get all cuddly and gross, so he pretends not to see and skims Mr. Brock’s Twitter on his phone. He hasn’t updated in a while, but it still feels nice to read some of his old posts. By the time they’re done eating he’s feeling something like that ‘courage’ stuff people are always talking about._

_It’s kind of dumb, when he explains, but they’re chill about it. They find another quiet alleyway a few blocks down and sit down to keep watch at the entrance. It takes a little longer because it’s at least a thousand times bigger than his usual work, but he manages to make a cat’s cradle out of his web, connecting from one wall of the alley to the other. It’s an idea he’s had for a while. Peter and Michelle sound like a pair of pigeons, cooing at his work and reaching up to poke at it. Miles hopes it gets across that he wants to learn how to use all this, he’s just…not as tough as they are. He can still be creative. He can still do lots of neat things._

_Nothing brave._

_They take the long way back home through Michelle’s block so they can talk a little more (and pretend Miles isn’t a pussy). He tries to get into the playful argument they start about mint chocolate versus pistachio. Peter barely even argues, just acts all contrary about tiny things and giggles whenever she punches him. Sheesh. He’s so crazy about her. He needs to just ask her out already, but that’s a little detail he’ll keep to himself. Miles has already given up on anybody ever asking him out on a date and the only advice he can really give is ‘don’t kiss a girl without asking’. Still. Michelle once told him she thinks she’s ugly, but she still has a guy like Peter who likes her. That gives a teeny, tiny part of him hope._

_Then the alarms arrive._

_Something always arrives. At school when he’s closing his locker, back in the little alley crook. Always. Spidey-sense just lets him know ahead of schedule. He’s good at running – always will be -- but for some reason it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. The ground is melting beneath his feet, worse than sand and threatening to suck him down._

_“Peter, where’s Michelle-”_

_He trips and lands hard on his knees. A hand grabs the back of his hoodie and tugs him back up before he’s even realized where all the dirt on his palms and jeans came from._

_“I can’t see her-”_

_“Don’t you worry about MJ.” Peter is scared, hair windblown and eyes round as he looks over his shoulder over and over again. Miles has never seen him breathe that fast before, not when he was roping webs between buildings and not when he runs track. Now he’s scared. “You need to go home.”_

_“Stop putting on that voice, Peter, I’m **not** a little kid-“_

_“You **are** a little kid, Miles! You’re a little kid that I might’ve put in really big trouble.” He snaps, out of nowhere, and shakes him by both shoulders. This time he’s anything but gentle. “No. Listen to me. Go home. Go home as fast as you can, hide as best you can, don’t talk to anyone. Okay? Okay? You’re good at hiding, Miles. Just tell me ‘okay’, that’s all I need to hear.”_

_“Okay, okay, I hear you, Peter, but what are you **talking** about-“_

_The gunshot scares a flock of pigeons into the air. Blood doesn’t splash on his front. Spiders do._

_”No! No, no,no, Peter, come on, just get up, I’ll help you walk, we’ll go to the hospital-“_

_”It’s not going to be enough, they are a dozen guys, you need to just go. Run as fast as you can, right now!”_

_They tumble out of Peter’s stomach and scatter all over the ground like change, land on Miles’s shirt and scuttle up his neck. He’s not afraid of spiders anymore, except he is now, and he tries to fling them off. Faces he can’t see are blooming out of the shadows all the way at the end of the street, a group of men with shoulders touching in a continuous loop like paper craft people. The spiders crush into gunk when Miles grabs Peter’s hands again and tries to tug him to his feet, but he’s weak and small and the ground is still trying to swallow him up._

_"Miles!” He shoves him away, or tries to, but he’s fallen into a dirty puddle by the sidewalk and he’s bleeding, he’s bleeding- “Miles, listen to me, you gotta go, get out of here, please, just go-"_

_More spiders spill out of his mouth and flood down his front, making his body shiver like television static, crawling over his eyes and into his ears. The men are walking down the street. They’ll be on top of them any second. Peter isn’t telling him to run anymore. He’s not even blinking. Now Miles tries to flee, shoot out a web and pull himself up the nearest tree, but spiders come out of his wrists instead. They itch, they bite, they cling, and he’s trying to pull them out instead of run, but he can’t run, there’s nowhere to go-_

” _ **Peter!**_ ”

Birds startle into the sky. Not pigeons. Just California songbirds. When he wakes up on the roof of a stranger’s house, early enough for the sky to hold onto a dusting of stars, the scabs on his knees wake up, too. A thousand legs moving in his hair and marching down his spine.

* ~ - ~ *

_Tap-tap-tap._

Miles doesn’t like to go on and on about his home life at school.

First, he didn’t like to go on and on in _general_ with people he didn’t know or like. Secondly, he was trying out that whole ‘work-life balance’ thing early. Even taking all that into account, a basic fact everybody in and out of his class knew anyway was how chill his mother was.

”I swear to God, Miles. I _swear_ to fucking God.”

They knew because every time someone in his study group would talk about getting their MMO privileges taken away for a week or being chewed out for sneaking to a party he just…couldn’t relate. When he showed up to school after having a blanket-over-head day he would shrug at the cautious concerns about playing catch-up or ‘faking’ an illness. Him and Rio worked out a system that’s been pretty tight for the past few years: they’re a _team_. Sometimes he cooks for her when she has to stay a few more hours at the office because a co-worker was hungover. She lets him have a day off when he has an all-night panic attack that leaves him sick and exhausted come morning. Mom bakes him cupcakes when he has an exam. He rubs her shoulders and makes sure to ask how her back’s doing, because she always tries to play it off.

Everything felt like a big deal to Miles. She was always trying to make it…not.

_Tap-tap-tap._

His father had been the opposite. He’d been strict, but didn’t seem to care all _that_ much about it. Like he was telling him to dress different (aka more ‘manly’) and get off the laptop after a binge session because he _had_ to. Not ‘cause he gave a shit either way. Always said it over his shoulder or over the edge of his tablet, too. Shrugged at his grades and the things he liked to talk about. It all might be why Miles didn’t really miss him when he stopped showing up and his mother later broke down that he wouldn’t be living with them from now on. It hurt for a year, of course. _Really_ badly, in fact, and he blamed himself for a while, because that’s how his brain works.

But he got over it faster than just about anything else in his life. It was whatever.

”I was on the phone all night. _All night!_ In the kitchen for hours, I didn’t get _one_ minute of sleep knowing you could be out there somewhere _hurt?_ In the back of someone’s fucking van? In police custody? There are no happy endings when a kid goes missing, Miles. I had to assume the worst! I had nothing else to go off of, except praying to God and begging, _begging_ him not to take you from me!”

_Tap-tap-tap._

When it came to being late, from school or the Center or just somewhere quiet, his mom never got on his case. As long as he told her where he was and gave her a guess on when he’d be back it was all good. Because Miles was ahead a grade and taking college courses he was around a _lot_ of older teens who were running ragged over still technically being a kid. One student even told him he was flat-out making his home life up to look good and fit in. Pft. Not like lying ever really helped him _there_ , but whatever. Last week Rio caught him with a tiny bag of weed a kid gave him ‘to be nice’ and totally _not_ because they didn’t want to be caught with it. Wasn’t mad he had it. Just worried he didn’t stash it properly because she didn’t want him to get in trouble.

That’s what upset her. Not the weed or eating too much junk food. Not him forgetting _not_ to cuss in front of relatives. Not him being too nervous to go out to eat at a restaurant he’s never been to or when he wakes her up in the middle of the night and asks her to sit with him after a nightmare.

”I don’t even…I don’t even know what to _say_.”

Right now his life’s a hot breakfast barely chewed and wolfed down on the way to the bus stop. Nothing’s…going down right. He’s pretty sure it’s disassociation that’s making everything feel weirdly buzzy and sorta out-of-reach, but it could also the realization that he might not have that kind of chill relationship ever again after what he did.

That’s what he gets for not answering his phone all night, succumbing to a bad stress nap and waking up in Glen Park miles away from home.

”He was out there driving back and forth _all night_. Knocking on people’s houses asking about you, calling teachers about you, everyone in Bernal, everyone in _Bayview?_ We were almost desperate enough to call the cops before you showed up! Do you know what could’ve happened if we had no choice? If they decided to go after Aaron and start shit even while we’re looking for _you?_ All of this, _all of this_ , could have been avoided if you called or text or…just…something! Not one message? Not _one?_ Miles, how is that so difficult?”

_Tap-tap-tap._

The worst part wasn’t the woozy relief he could hear before he’d finished shutting the front door. The worst part was when she…looked at him. She’d yelled on the phone for an hour, yelling at _him_ for an hour, until her voice was horse, tears dropping off her cheeks and hitting the floor louder than a door slam to his spidey-sense. When he had a hard time getting words out she shook him by his shoulders, looking all over his face for where the excuses or apologies could be. None of it, though, was as soul-crushing as that split-second he caught on her face when he walked through the kitchen doorway. The ‘ _I’m shattered glass in the shape of a human being_ ’ look.

It’s been blinking through his mind this entire time in his very own PowerPoint presentation from hell. He never wants to see again as long as he lives.

”Miles, for fuck’s _sake_ , are you even listening to me?”

Miles grinds nails into his sweatshirt hem. The grooves in the fabric could cup water. He nods.

”…Y-Yeah.”

Rio holds her face with both hands and sucks in a deep breath. He hopes she’ll keep them there, but they slide down and show him brown eyes so red-rimmed it looks like make-up.

_Tap-tap-tap_.

”…Okay. I’m going to ask you simple questions. You’re going to answer every single last one of them or, heaven _help_ me, you won’t see the sun for a month.” Miles manages a nod. She lets out the exhale in a rattle. “…Is it because Aaron’s living with us?”

“No.”

”Are you lying to me right now?”

”N-No.”

“Is it…is it because I’m working longer _hours?_ ”

“No…”

“Then why? _Why?_ ” She pulls and rubs at her eyebrows. “Oh, Miles, God…you…you never _pull_ shit like this. This isn’t _like_ you.”

“I’m sorry.” There’s a full truth in there, at least. He was. He really, really, really was. “I’m so sorry, Mom.”

_Tap-tap-tap._

Miles glances sidelong at the sofa legs. Aaron’s boots are still there. His uncle hasn’t stopped jiggling one leg this entire time, drumming his heel onto the floorboards and making his ears itch. He’s not going to look at his face. It’s just another sinkhole. For the first few minutes after he got home Aaron kept looking at him just…blank and confused. Not angry, temperamental, nothing. He _never_ looks confused. He’s too much of a smug jackass and even now he’s just looking… _lost_. Shifting his hands beneath his pits and looking off into space and bouncing his leg like he just doesn’t know what to do with himself. Rio drops her hands to her sides with a soft _slap_ and looks over to him for help.

“…You’re not the only one that’s been through shit, Miles.” He’s not the kind of guy who mutters, either. “In fact, your mom has shouldered more than _both_ of us combined. While we’re here we might as well get along. I don’t know what the fuck was goin’ through your head, but whatever you’re goin’ through, worryin’ us like this doesn’t help.“

Whatever he’s _going through?_ _Us?_ Miles twists the hem of his shirt so hard it turns into a knot of rope.

“You don’t know _anything_.”

In a blink his voice shifts from hoarse and tired to sharp as a pencil.

“Oh, well, I fuckin’ _tried_ , huh?” The tapping stops. “I tried to talk to you and find some common ground and you always slam a door in my face or brush me off. You’re fuckin’ stuck with me for now, Miles, so grow a _goddamn_ pair, grow _up_ while you’re at it and deal with it already. Pretty Slope manager called me. Told me he’s renegin’ on that whole ‘second chance’ shit ‘cause of the break-in. I’m not gonna be out of your hair if job hunting continues goin’ so fuckin’ swimmingly.”

Miles blinks. His momentum slips on an ice cube.

”Didn’t even do it.” Aaron lets out a tight, bitter little laugh. “I didn’t even do it and they’re lettin’ me take the fuckin’ hit. Just another fuckin’ Tuesday.”

…What?

“…It’s fine.” He rolls both his eyes and shoulders at once, slouching against the wall again and resuming the bounce. “Don’t worry about it. I’m applyin’ at the moving company a few blocks over for a part-time. Not like the record store’s got the stock anymore after all that water, anyway.”

Is it…disassociation making the words not really stick? It has to be, because his hearing’s fine and the patterns in the palms of his hands are painful enough to guarantee he’s not asleep. Pretty Slope’s vintage stuff is ruined…because of him. But he…but that didn’t make _sense_. He didn’t try to ruin anything. At least…at least not like _that_. Aaron had glanced to Rio somewhere in-between the first few words and the last. Apparently it means something, because she suddenly looks completely drained.

“…Don’t look at me like that.” She sighs, sliding a hand over the back of her neck. “I was…it was a stupid thing for me to say.“

“Yeah, you fuckin’ _think?_ I got two years of catch-up to deal with and you can’t even stop from jumpin’ to conclusions-“

“I _said_ it was a stupid thing to say, all right?!”

It goes from zero to one hundred in a flash. Rio yells about how she’s been frazzled all night and isn’t thinking straight, that she can’t help talking out of the side of her neck when she thinks she lost her kid. Aaron yells back he’s been in a similar boat and at least knows to keep his big fat mouth shut. Miles can’t make out much more over the horrible drumming banging between his ears. Mom blamed…Aaron. Mom blamed Aaron for the Pretty Slope break-in, even though it was _his_ fault. Even though he was just trying to help so Aaron would _stop_ stealing things and wouldn’t go back to jail and make all their lives easier. It hasn’t even been a day and he has no idea if he’ll be caught and sent to jail himself.

In trying to make everything better he made everything much, _much_ worse. …Oh, God. Miles leans his forehead down to his knees and covers his ears with both hands.

Oh, _God_.

”-doesn’t fuckin’ matter. It’s _over_. What’s not over is the grounding _hell_ this kid’s going to be in-“ The world suddenly stops spinning when he’s shaken by his shoulder. Miles surprises himself by how hard he shoves his hand off.

”Get off.”

”Oh, yeah? That piss you off? Huh? That inconvenience you a little?” Aaron snaps, shaking him again. “Just a fuckin’ taste of what _you_ put us through all goddamn night and morning-“

Miles slaps two hands on his chest and _shoves_ him back.

“ _It’s your fault!_ ”

Aaron stumbles back, eyes round with shock. The house is abruptly so quiet Miles can, quite literally, hear insects scuttling beneath the floorboards and the faint pitch to the wind outside as it dies down. …Crap. Any harder and he could have hurt him. It came out of him in a gust and, just like that, the anger fizzles out. His palms turn ice cold and his tongue ashy as his uncle slowly straightens up and tilts his head, like he hasn’t quite heard him right.

”…My fault?”

“Th-that I went to New York.” His mouth doesn’t work right. It’s hard to breathe. Miles looks back down to the floor. “That…that M-Mom’s had a hard time, _has_ had a…a hard time, and…”

Rio’s puffy eyes widen. They flick from Aaron, then to him, then back. The corner of Aaron’s mouth twitches a few times. He leans back on his heels and crosses his arms again.

“No…” He scoffs, shakier this time, mouth still at a mean, crooked angle. “Memory ain’t what it used to be, but I’m _pretty_ sure it was your deadbeat dad what started that snowball.”

”W-Well, if…if you didn’t steal things all the time-“ Miles stutters, clenching his hands into fists. “I-If you didn’t go to jail-“

Aaron blinks…then throws his head back and _laughs_. The sound goes off in a bang and makes him jump.

” _Steal things all the fuckin’ time!_ Oh, Ri, _listen_ to this.”

”Aaron, knock it off.“ She groans, giving Miles a look to stop talking, like it’s _his_ fault right now or something. His uncle waves a hand in front of his face, still forcing out snickers that don’t sound at all genuine.

”No, no, you’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me with this shit? Everythin’ that’s happened with you and New York is my fault. Oh, this is gold.”

Hot, sour embarrassment rises up from his feet to make him light-headed. His fists tremble by his sides. He’s so angry he wants to throw up. Miles holds onto that furious bile, even when Aaron finally stops chuckling and fixes him a glare so dark the usual nightmares could take a backseat.

“…I went to jail for someone else’s crime, Miles. I took the fuckin’ rap when I wasn’t even in the goddamn _area_ because the cops needed someone with the right face to blame. Two fuckin’ years in a _fuckin’ box_ eatin’ shit food and tryin’ not to get stabbed over cards for somethin’ I didn’t even _do_. I didn’t bother tellin’ you because you wouldn’t have believed me, anyway.” He points right at his face, a sneer dipping his voice low. “…Yeah. Yeah, I see it. That precious fuckin’ doubt, right there, like you really know so goddamn _much_ at the age of fifteen.”

”Th-That’s not _true_.”

”Me being to blame for all the shit goin’ on in your life ain’t true either, _Miles Morales_.”

”Guys, stop, that’s _enough-_ ”

”Y-You _are_ to blame for all the bullshit!”

”You don’t know _shit_ and you decide all this, all on your own, when you’re supposed to be this big fuckin’ honor roll student, so fuckin’ smart. Got that know-it-all bullshit from your fuckin’ _father_.”

His lungs turn to ice. He wants to hit something. He wants to hit _him_. That’s not true. That’s not _true!_ He got that from-

”-you!” Miles screams. It just comes out, shrill and broken and tired and sorry and _hurt_. “I hate _him_ and I hate _you!_ ”

” _Miles!_ ” His mother snaps, though she’s not so much angry as shocked. Aaron is worse, like he _always_ is, staring him down with wild eyes and a growl in his throat.

” _Excuse me?_ ”

Rio’s arm shoots between them in a barrier, but Aaron leans right over it, teeth bared bright through his beard.

”You watch your _goddamn_ mouth! I tried, Miles, I tried so hard to finally get back to both of you-“ His voice abruptly goes off-key, in a third thing he doesn’t do, and- “I’ve come clean and I’ve left my old life behind, _people behind_ , and then this shit? You tellin’ your fuckin’ friends I’d be better off under some _goddamn bridge?!_ ” Mile’s heart jumps into his throat and burns with guilt. He doesn’t have time to think about how his uncle got into his laptop and Discord conversations. The man’s eyes have grown shinier than a coin. “Y-You both are all I _got_ now and I’m tryin’ my goddamn best, I don’t fuckin’ deserve this, Miles, _neither_ of us do-“

“For fuck’s sake, Aaron, I said that’s _enough!_ Miles, stop, baby, please, we’re not finished-”

He’s already up the stairs and flinging open his bedroom door. Where he was probably going to be 24/7, which wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for such a horrible, _horrible_ reason. He can already see the mornings sneaking into the kitchen before Rio’s early curfew to sneak breakfast upstairs, the tip-toeing around all the places Aaron has been, the things he still can’t say and never can because they’ll find them, then _him_. He shoves his face into the pillow and _howls_. His inventory is a complete bust. There’s not a single song he can listen to or webbing he can play with that will make the fireball in his chest go away.

He cries, until even the worst thoughts are too tired to keep up. Until he’s little more than skin and bones and self-loathing.

”…Babe?”

The bedside clock is blurry. It’s been an hour and a half. …Huh. It barely felt like a minute. His mom doesn’t sit next to him or at his chair, hovering in the doorway like a ghost. Miles already knows he’s going to hate what she’s about to say.

“Hey.” Something about how soft her voice is makes him want to start the tears up all over again. He doesn’t even have the energy. “We need to talk.“

“…I don’t want to talk right now, Mom.” He mumbles, voice gummy from the tears. “Just leave me alone, please.”

“Babe, I’m sorry, but we need to. Right now. There’s something I have to tell you.”

No. He can’t. He _can’t_ do any of this, not when he’s a bundle of cobwebs ready to fall apart from a stiff breeze. Miles pulls his face from the pillow, leaving a mortifying stain behind. Not enough to look at her. Just enough to let his voice carry, what little is left.

”Can we _please_ just talk tomorrow, _please_.”

”Miles, this can’t _wait_ until tomorrow-“

”Mom, I _promise_ I won’t go anywhere! I _promise_ -“

” _It’s my fault you went to New York_.”

Now he looks her in the eye, because there’s nothing else he can do.

”…It’s my fault.” She’s panting really hard all over again, trying _her_ hardest not to cry again, even though her eyes are completely bloodshot and don’t have any more salt to spill. ”I didn’t have to send you there, baby. I didn’t have to and I did, anyway, because… _oh_.” She holds her curls, frizzy and flyaway from the long night. “I…”

Reality weighs a million pounds. Miles slowly shifts and shuffles until he’s up on his knees, holding the pillow against his chest and leaning back until his shoulders press against the windowsill. His spidey-sense is dormant, because he doesn’t want to hear the rest of the world, but he can still tell Aaron’s gone somewhere. There’s no music in the garage. The kitchen is quiet.

”…What are you talking about?”

Rio pulls her hands from her hair to scratch at her eyes.

”…I was…I was in a really bad place, baby. A really bad place. I wanted to take care of you, I promise you, I did. I tried. I just…I couldn’t do it.” She sucks in a sharp breath, the kind of catch-up inhale after too much crying. “…Remember when I took two weeks off from work before Sammy called? When we went camping?”

”…Yeah.” He shuffles. “…You said you got laid off and needed a ‘goddamn break fit for a queen’.”

Her smile trembles.

”I didn’t get laid off. I got a raise.” She looks at the floor. “A promotion. Our office lost a worker to a stroke and another to the mental ward. They needed an immediate replacement and I was the most qualified runner-up. It was better pay, but way more responsibility, and…it made me realize how close I was to just…not being able to _do_ this. Any of this. After your father left I had to completely change how I approached everything. Then Aaron got put away and something in me just…stopped working. I took you on that vacation as…as an apology? Because I knew someone else would have to take care of you for a while.”

She sniffs, and another tear squeezes out.

”Nothing helped. Nothing worked. All those good habits I worked for didn’t mean crap. I stopped going out. I was either way overeating or way undereating. All those new recipes I’ve been making was the only thing I was able to _do_ , because it gave me something to binge on…”

Brownies for stargazing. Late-night homemade pizza on weekends. Miles studies all those surprisingly well-done meals in his mind’s eye, all over again.

”It’s…a problem. Maybe a medical one. I’ve talked to the doctor about it, but haven’t gone to therapy because I’ve been low on time.” She interrupts herself with a shaky huff. “…and…and I’m ashamed. It wasn’t just that, either. For months I couldn’t get any sleep, I barely had energy. I was _losing_ it at work. It was a breakdown waiting to happen. I didn’t want you to see all that happen to your mom. I thought maybe…some distance would do us both some good. I really thought.”

…Distance. Miles blinks tiredly, stomach pitching with the beginning of hiccups.

”Oh. I didn’t…know.”

”That’s because I did my best to keep it from you, babe. Worked harder at hiding what was wrong with me than just…” She’s rubbing at her neck with both hands now, knitting fingers and letting her elbows hang by her cheeks. ”…I should’ve kept you here. I could’ve…tried, I just…didn’t want you to see me like that. I was a mess, I could barely even work, I was…it’s _my_ fault, is what I’m saying, Miles. It’s _my_ fault you went there, because I couldn’t just suck it up in front of my own son, not because of your father or because of money problems, so just…please, stop blaming your uncle, please. Aaron fucked up big time, yeah, and I’m going to kick his sorry ass across Bernal for the way he talked to you back there, but he _loves_ you.” She tries to meet his gaze. “He was…so _scared_ last night.”

Now she walks in, though everything about her feels completely off-kilter. Like she feels she doesn’t belong here. Miles buries his face back into the wet silk and wishes for the millionth time in his life he could just disappear.

”He’s never been good with just saying what he feels. He knows. He blamed himself, over text. Kept apologizing. Told me while he was knocking around the neighborhood that he shouldn’t have left Sacramento.” She goes quiet for a minute. It feels long and not very long at all. “…I’m so sorry about Peter. I know that’s why you don’t talk to me. If I hadn’t sent you there then none of that would’ve happened to you.” It’s too much to talk about all at once. She knows. She always knows, because she’s his mother and knows him better than anyone else. Instead of continuing that train of thought she stops, then whispers in a voice so husky it hurts to hear, “…Look at me, babe.”

He peers over the pillow. …The broken glass look is back. Rio settles on the very edge of the bed and moves her hand in a circle between them, what little space there is.

“You need to be here.” Her voice cracks into a million tiny pieces. “ _Here_ , where I can hold you in my arms.”

Miles bites his lip, and whatever was in his body holding him up shrivels again and is lost to the breeze.

”You are still in _big_ fucking trouble. I could make a movie about all the ways you’re grounded-“ She snorts weakly and shakes her head, because it’s a weird word for them. “-but I won’t. You’re just going to get a happy list by the kitchen door and a new schedule to stick to from now on. You messed up. Teens do that. I’m not going to punish you for life over it…” Her voice trails off with another thought. “…Come here.”

He gingerly sets down the pillow and shuffles on his knees to curl up against her chest. Rio clutches him and buries her nose into his now-lopsided hair. She doesn’t talk for a few seconds. Just grips his shoulderblades so hard it hurts and breathes him in.

”I love you more than anything else.” She whispers. “Things aren’t what they seem, baby.”

’ _No_ ’. Miles thinks as she pets his curls back into place. ‘ _No, they’re really not_.’

* ~ - ~ *

“ _Hey, Miles! Haven’t heard from you in a while. Hope you’re doing all right. You know if you need to vent a little or play a few rounds all you have to do is ask. I have some links on breathing meditation you might be interested in. Also found this really cool anti-anxiety game where you can create little galaxies_.”, MulletHell, yesterday at 9:30 p.m.

“ _miles u doing okay?? :( miss hearing from u! theres something i kinda wanna talk about later but lemme know how ur doing first k??_ ”, SilkySmoothPotatoes, yesterday at 1:31 a.m.

“ _so uh everyone else has pretty much said the same thing but I’m worried too tbh, check in soon all right. If you just wanna be alone that’s totally cool_ ”, Got_The_Gank, 8:04 a.m.

“First I don’t see you, now Eddie’s taking another damn hike to fuck knows where. Is it my turn to take a vacation now? Heh. Hear Boston’s nice this time of year.”

Of course Brock’s not at the Golden Community Center today. That kind of karma would be _way_ too good for the crap he pulled. It still sucks, though, and he pretends to feel totally cool about it in front of Susan and Madison.

It’s sunny and windy today. Perfect for the Center’s bi-weekly ‘enrichment day’, where a thousand kids are shoved into the front yards and told to mess around for a few hours. Whatever. Miles tries not to outright glower at the sun as he sets up kite equipment on tables, though pulling up his face muscles takes way too much energy and he has to resort to constantly ‘noticing’ things on the ground so people don’t comment on his resting bitch face. His mom telling him to text her once an hour is a decent excuse, even if all he sends is ‘checking in’ or ‘hey’. More than what he’s been saying to his friends, anyway, and he really does feel like crap about that. He just hasn’t wanted to talk much this week.

He’s being helped on _that_ front, at least. Aaron has been mostly out of the house the past few days job hunting and running errands for Mom. His chest starts to burn at just the memory, queasy and sore. To think…the one thing he wanted he _finally_ got, in the worst way and at the worst time.

The screech of a kid tackling another kid jolts him back to reality, but only for a moment. It’s easier to fade into the fuzz today. The theme for today is crafts and kites, to match up with the weather and keep the youth active. Flash is supervising again. Miles is _still_ trying to figure out why the hardened ex-veteran with a firecracker temper is constantly being put around small children. Maybe this is a form of enrichment for him, too. Right now he’s trying to get Kaeki to get out of the tree by the swingset. It’s going about as well as anyone could expect.

”How the hell did you even get _up_ there? I swear to fuck, your mother is going to have a field day when she gets back. Get down here, _right now_!” A short stretch of silence. “…Are you sticking your tongue out at me?”

This is a recipe for disaster. Either the man was going to attract every last supervisor and attendee on the _planet_ and cause a scene or he’ll startle the girl so bad she falls. Miles isn’t going to waste time arguing – Flash was way better than him at it by a landslide – and he instead brushes past the man’s chair. With a flex of his hands he hops onto the trunk and scales it like a ladder. There are a few knobs here and there, but not many. The fact she got up at _all_ when she’s turning five in a month is pretty impressive. She’d make a great spidey-kid.

”Hey, Kaeki.”

He sucks with kids – because kids aren’t good with him – but Kaeki’s a kindred soul. Introverts can practically _smell_ other introverts. She’s been pretty chill around him since he re-applied, even though he doesn’t really follow what she’s saying a lot of the time. When she _talks_ , that is. Right now she’s completely non-verbal and watching him like a scared cat, arms and legs wrapped around the trunk. There are leaves in her hair and the project she was working on is a wrinkly mess in one fist.

”Here.” He grips the branch above him – not that he _needs_ to, just for appearances – and reaches out a hand to her. “Let me get you down from here.”

Whatever she came up here for isn’t done yet, or she’s too scared to move, because she just scrunches her mouth. Flash grumbles below about having to ‘talk down _two_ kids’ now. Miles puts on a smile for the girl.

”Actually, uh, I could use a little help over by the table, Kaeki.” He says, more just talking about _anything_ to make the probably-fifteen foot drop not look like such a big deal. “You’re really good at painting. Wanna help me make the kites look nicer? Put some stars and moons all over them?”

Another twist of the mouth. A low whine. He’s too tired to even be afraid of ghosts. Without a pause he activates his spidey-sense to the fullest and studies the highlighter colors that spread through the air: there’s a _lot_ of white coming off her right now. Yeah, he knows that color. Miles stretches out his hand more, close enough for her to take, and softens his voice.

”It’s okay. Don’t be scared. I won’t let you fall.”

Miles marvels at Kaeki’s hand when she reaches out to poke at his fingers. It’s so _tiny_. Kind of…hard to believe he used to be this small. She barely weighs anything when she clambers into his arms, but he pretends she does to keep up appearances. The girl touches the ground eagerly and rubs at her eyes with two fists. A few kids are staring down the lawn, but not many. Crisis averted. Kind of. It might be a little explaining to Tanaka later, but hopefully Flash would take up that mantle. Even though Tanaka was still mad at him for startling Kaeki during that presentation.

”There you go.” Miles gives her back a little pat. “Let’s save the climbing exercises for fitness week, okay?”

”Stars.” Kaeki holds the crumpled up paper crafts up sadly. “Up there.”

Miles looks up at the green and yellow leaves bouncing in the wind, all the brighter through his enhanced vision. Oh. So _that’s_ why: she wanted to hang them off the branches. Well…it wouldn’t hurt to keep the ball rolling, he supposes. It takes a little explaining and gesturing, but the second Kaeki catches on she gets the cutest, _hugest_ grin on her face. She gives him all the paper-and-paint stars on strings she made and he finishes the job for her, climbing back up the tree and rearranging them while she points and babbles from the safety of the grass below. He knows how to say a few things in Japanese, but he makes it a point to look all surprised when she teaches him about ‘hoshi’ and ‘tsuki’.

”Good looks, kid.” Flash mutters when he walks back over to him, rubbing tree sap off his palms. “I would’ve caught her. Just ‘cause I got the chair doesn’t mean I’ve gone soft. Still doesn’t like me, is all.”

”You’re just a little loud.” Miles shrugs. Kaeki’s back to playing by herself beneath the tree, squeaking some make-believe story and completely hypnotized by the paper stars swaying with each new breeze. He keeps her in the corner of his eye. Just to be careful.

”It’s how I talk, can’t help it.” He huffs. “…Could try to whisper more, I guess.”

Miles carefully doesn’t raise his eyebrows. No, that’s what most people called an _indoor_ voice. Flash Thompson used to be a soldier or a marine or something. Old habits died hard and his never died at all, by the looks of it. He’s still got his dog tags and his knuckles have so many scars they look permanently swollen. Only one tattoo, on the back of his neck, which is kind of weird. He seemed like the kind of guy who’d have more. He _does_ still have that handgun on his hip, though. Knife, too.

”Mr. Thompson.” He waits for him to look over from where he’s patching together a kid’s broken kite.

”I keep tellin’ you to call me Flash, kid.” He grunts, snapping the wood back into place and tapping on it to double-check. “I ain’t a teacher.”

“Sorry. Flash. Why do you stay at the Center so often?”

”Tired of me already?” He snorts. Miles resists the urge to sigh.

”No.” This is why he hated talking to people. Everything was a launching pad into some deeper insecurity. “Just…wondering. You’ve been here for years, is all.”

The kid jogs back over to take back their toy, dragging it behind them on the ground and making it bounce. Flash grumbles at them to be more careful, then takes off his hat and crumples it up, using it to mop at the sweat on his neck.

”…Better than a home.” He mutters. “Better than home, too.”

Huh. Flash isn’t an introvert – the literal _exact_ opposite, actually – but…he might have the same trouble with reaching out to people he has, too.

Miles checks his phone. His requirement for the week is just about up. The last hour still feels like a _year_ away. God, he wishes Brock were here. Have him launch into a rant that could make the time pass by in a blink. Even if Miles couldn’t really say much back, anyway. Guy would ask why he’s looking so mopey, too, and Miles would lie and he wouldn’t believe it because he _knows_ him. …Yeah. It’d just be awkward. He looks back up when a Spanish-speaking family shuffle up to the tables and take some of the sheets, looking less than comfortable. Flash does his best to be friendly, but he’s already struggling with their accents, and it’s with another inward sigh Miles steps in to play interpreter. By the time another group of kids are dropped off he can barely muster up a _smile_ , let alone words.

Constantly checking the local news for updates on the break-in at Pretty Slope probably isn’t helping his mood. He’s sneaking his cell out by his hip and checking for the fifteenth time when a big, scarred hand claps his back.

”Geez, kid. You look like you’re at a morgue.” Crap, he nearly jumped out of his _skin_. Flash gives him a push. “Here, why don’t you just sort these and let me do the rest of the talking. If I fuck up that’s on me. I know how to say right and left in Spanish, at least.”

Whatever. Fine by him. Guy gives him a needling look, trying to egg him into sharing what’s got his pants in a twist without being obvious, but Miles keeps on his ball and pretends he doesn’t see anything as he folds Golden Community Center pamphlets into little packs (and keeps one enhanced ear trained firmly on Kaeki). When it gets a little slow he caves in to impulsion and gives Brock a call, standing off to the side of Flash’s table and watching the Center activity. He picks up on the third ring.

”Brock?” Bleh. Talking on the phone is somehow even _worse_ than talking in front of class. “Um, hi.”

” _-hold on, lemme take this real quick. Yeah, yeah, okay. Sure. Be back._ ” Yikes. He called him in the middle of a convo. “ _Hey, hey, Speedster._ ” There’s a _lot_ of talking in the background. He’s in some sort of crowd. “ _What’s up?_ ”

Miles pushes one arm into his pit and looks down at his feet with a tiny smile.

”Um, just checking in. You haven’t dropped by in a bit and I just wanna know you’re doing all right?” Ugh, why does he have to phrase _everything_ as a question when he’s got the nerves? “Not trying to, like, bother you or anything.”

” _Mm, yeah, ‘m 'olding up._ ” Miles tilts his head and tries to make sense of the noise. Someone is ranting about medical bills. There’s a fire crackling. Where is he? “ _You never bother me , kid. You at the Center?_ ”

Miles’s smile fades. …Woah. Guy had a funny way of talking – he was always trying to suppress his lisp -- but right now he’s slurring so hard it’s almost _impossible_ to separate one consonant from the other. Is he at a bar or something?

”Uh, yeah. I’m with Mr. Thompson right now.” The man scowls over his shoulder at that. “Um…Flash. Just been making crafts and helping visitors get situated. I helped Kaeki hang up some paper stars. Stuff like that.”

” _Oh, ha ha. Mm, yeah, well done, she’s gonna love you for life._ ” He gets a short, but genuine-sounding chuckle. Miles promptly puts that in his inventory. “ _’m glad you’re still keeping up. Heard you hadn’t been around for a bit, got a little worried, there._ ”

”Right. I’m sorry.” Is all he can really say to that. Crap, maybe calling him wasn’t such a hot idea. Brock saves him the trouble.

” _Hey, uh, listen, I’d love to chat some more, but I got a few things that need doing._ ” He sounds really beat up about it. Yeah, calling was definitely a bad idea. All he did was just shit all over what’s clearly already a hard day. “ _You’re doing great, Miles. Seriously, don’t let a few missed days get you down. Happens to the best of us. I know your anxiety likes to munch on that stuff, so kick it to the curb. You got my permission. Hey, Flash still there?_ ”

”Yeah, he’s still here.”

” _Tell him I said the bunker’s shit and to chill the fuck out._ ”

Uh.

”Um, Mr. Thompson? Brock said-“ Is he seriously doing this? “The bunker’s crap and chill the eff out.”

There’s a wheezy laugh on the other line. He sounds like his mom on Saturdays. Yeah, he’s drunk.

” _What’d he say, what’d he say?_ ”

Miles squints at Flash’s hands.

”Um, he didn’t say anything? He’s just making a, uh…hole with his left hand and…sticking his middle finger in it.” He pauses. “Repeatedly.”

” _Yeah, yeah. Ha ha. Him, too. Listen, um, I gotta go, but I’ll catch up with you soon, kid. You take it easy, too, yeah? Dig around in that inventory box of yours and pull out some good stuff. Listen to music, remember to breathe. All in the lungs._ ”

”Yeah. Yeah, I will. You, too, Brock.”

Miles frowns at his phone, both cheered and back at square one. This didn’t pass the minutes as much as he’d hope. There’s still too much time with all this noise, all this social interaction that feels like sand in his eyes. If his patience were a health bar it’d be in the red. With a sink to his stomach he realizes he probably should’ve tried to be a little friendlier today, with what he’s thinking of asking. He stands off to the side and waits for a confused mother to be redirected into the Center before stepping forward.

“Mr. Thomp-“ He pauses. “…Flash, is it okay if…” He clears his throat and tries to lighten his voice. “Is it, um…okay if I go on a walk?”

“Go on a…walk?” He squints. “You’ve been walking plenty enough already, huh?”

“I meant, like…outside the Center.”

“Where, kid?”

“The, um…bridge.”

“Why?”

“I like to go there and think when I’m…stressed.” Miles fidgets with his shirt hem, then stops and clasps his hands together. “…Look at the ocean.”

“You can’t wait a little longer to stare at water?” He huffs and checks his watch. “…That’s a ways out there. I’ll go with you.”

“It’s okay, I can go by myself.”

“Except you’re _my_ responsibility for the day. Won’t have that on my hands. I won’t talk to you, if you want. Sometimes all you need is some silence.” He tucks his cap back on. “I’ll make sure nobody bothers you.”

Maybe it’s not the worst thing ever. His very own special escort in case anyone tries to chat him up or follow him around. Especially with how awful everything is right now and how bad his thoughts are getting. Yeah. That…actually might be for the best.

“…Okay.” Miles shuffles off to go change out of his Golden Community Center t-shirt. “Thanks.”

”Least I can do, kid.”

* ~ - ~ *

Flash keeps his promise. It…means a lot.

The guy convinces Susan to let Carol take over for a bit, which he appreciates, then reads a novel on the bus, which he _really_ appreciates. Miles blasts songs in his headphones and zones out harder than he ever has before. It’s pretty loud, he guesses, because the man keeps glancing up at him with that ‘ _damn kids and their tinnitus_ ’ expression adults get, but he still doesn’t talk. It’s the tail end of the weekday afternoon, so the only people that are really around are too random for patterns. A lot of nice, big gaps in the sidewalk when they get off at their stop and make their way to Golden Gate. Miles checks in with another text, then stuffs his phone away and waits for Flash to catch up. A guilty prickle settles on his shoulders. He didn’t realize how fast he’d been walking.

”Huh. Haven’t been here in a minute.” The man grunts, peering beneath the brim of his cap. Thankfully he’s too distracted to be ticked off. “You picked a good time to drop by. Not too many people.”

Another needling look. Yeah, it’s common knowledge that Miles was the itchy little shit afraid of too many heads and shoulders. He doesn’t answer, instead making his way past a pair of tourists and onto the bridge. His stomach swoops and bobs every time someone jostles past him, even though the guardrail isn’t within touching distance yet. Spiderwebs and super reflexes and he’s _still_ afraid of heights. He’ll never change. When he peers over the edge the acrobatics his stomach’s performing hit another high.

”Don’t go too far!” Flash calls. Miles glances over his shoulder.

”I won’t. Just gonna look.”

The guy doesn’t believe him, because his frown lines turn into canyons, but that’s okay. He doesn’t believe himself most of the time, either. Miles leans on his forearms and stares at the wash of ocean below, as flat as a photograph. A few birds wind their way below in little white specks. His spidey-sense tells him the man’s hovering about a few feet behind him. He’s not going to jump, if that’s what he’s worried about. Miles hunches forward and rests his chin on the fold of his arms. His brain is starting to blare again. About his inevitable stint in jail, all the ways he’s going to be captured, what his family is going to think of him when they find out. Something about the long, long distance to the bottom keeps it in the corners of his mind.

It just feels good to…look.

_The cat’s cradle has the magic. Clambering up and down the alley’s brick walls has left him feeling like he could try again._

_They go all the way up to the top floor of the same spot, even though all three of them are pushing their curfew now. Michelle goes and sits down by the trashcan again. She’s got her laptop out and to the side. Montell Jordan blares all tinny from the speakers. One of his favorite songs._

_Miles doesn’t step off the edge, because that gives him too much time to overthink, and just jumps like he’s going into a swimming pool. He sends out a web to stick against the fire escape, falls down and holds on. It’s never like holding onto a rope. It’s…spongier. He can feel everything traveling through the web and tingling all over his body. He swings back and forth, then slows down to dangle a few yards above the ground, feet curled beneath his butt and breath slamming together in his lungs. …Okay. Okay. He hasn’t died, but he could. It’s far enough down he could sprain an ankle. Break a leg. If he falls the right way it’ll snap his neck._

_Just like that…the panic sets in._

_”Um, Peter?” He mutters. “Peter, okay, I’m done, I can’t do this-“_

_”No, Miles, you’re doing great!” He calls down, delighted. “Just pull yourself up, retract it through the wrist and let it lift you-“_

_”No, I mean, I can’t do this, I don’t wanna go any higher-“ He starts to shake. “Peter-“_

So stupid. It’d been the simplest thing in the world. Miles shifts his head to lay his cheek in the crook of his elbow, watching the kids throwing little shreds of napkin to catch on the breeze. Voices are picking up somewhere to his right, but he doesn’t care.

’ _Peter, I’m not a bad person. I swear I’m not a bad person. I don’t want to be. There are a lot of...a lot of people I don’t want to be like. But I keep doing bad things. I keep fucking up. When I’m not running away I fuck up. When I’m not fucking up I’m running away. I messed up so badly last week. I’m trying not to be a bad person but I’m a bad person, anyway, and I’m…I just…I don’t know what...to do, anymore. If I should even be bothering at all_.’

“When are they going to be here? I don’t know if she can-“

“No, that’s it. One slip, she’s gone. What if she faints-“

’ _I miss you, Michelle. Sorry. I know you wanted me to call you MJ. I wish I did. I wish…I don’t know. I don’t even know what to think. I don’t believe in heaven or hell. I don’t believe in anything. Not even what you told me, about just doing whatever and keeping both fingers crossed._ ’

”Should I call out? Say something?”

”No, no, shh, you’re going to make it worse-“

Miles leans both palms on the rail and peers through the glare at the crowd of people gathering a handful of yards away.

”I’m calling 911. Just keep an eye on her.”

”Where else is she supposed to go?”

There’s always this tiny gap in-between a shitty-but-acceptable reality and a shitty-and-unacceptable reality. A blip of time where emotions can float in suspended animation before being slam-dunked into the present. At first he’s not really gathering what’s got everyone’s attention, idly thinking it’s some boat or dropped item. He even starts to move back into his hunched position and get lost in his head again. Then it clicks they’re talking about a person attempting to jump off the bridge…and the world speeds up faster than he can keep up.

”…Mr. Thompson?” He gets a hard frown when he turns around, but he can’t pay attention to it right now. “I think there’s someone beneath the bridge.”

”…What?” He puts down his book again, wheeling forward and craning his neck. “…Jesus Christ.”

They move closer to the crowd, then lean over the guardrail again for a better look. Miles hopes it’s just someone swimming in the water or some trash bag caught on the metal in the shape of a person, but it’s stupid to hope for anything. There _is_ a person – a young woman in a patterned jacket – and she’s beneath the overhang, like she’d climbed down a few feet and got stuck. Even shorter than most everyone else he can still see the fear emanating off her, bright whites and pale greens so sharp he’s afraid to breathe it in.

”Fucking hell.” Flash breathes, running a hand over his mouth. “Hell was she thinking? No way she can get back up on her own.”

Miles shivers when the wind picks up again. It’s getting worse. The next breeze could push her off. She could faint and fall. She could lose her grip and slip. She could just decide to jump. He pushes back from the rail-

“Kid, no, what are you-“ Flash grabs his shirt sleeve. “Stay here, they got authorities on the way. I’m going to call, too.”

“…I have to do something.” Miles whispers, too low to hear over the commotion. He tries to tug away. “Flash, I…I have to _do_ something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Fucking hell, what is up with kids and havin’ to climb up and down every last goddamn thing?” He growls, grip relaxing just a little. “Just stay put and don’t make a scene, I’m gonna go talk to the- _Miles!_ ”

He walks as briskly as he can without outright running. If he bolts or even shows too much stress on his face he’ll grab attention. The wind kicks up suddenly, so rough it feels like his feet are going to be kicked out from under him.

“ _Where the fuck are you going?!_ ”

The world saturates. It gets _thicker_. Colors grow rich, sound cranks up, texture turns hypersharp even at a distance and every last vibration and ripple organic catalogs in his brain in a drop-down list. He can hear everything from one end of the bridge _all_ the way to the other end. It’s just like a panic attack, magnified a hundred times and transforming every little millisecond into a novella. Miles leans back and stares at the dozens of light contrails stretching down the length of the bridge. The dozens of people on the sidewalk and the dozens that have slowed to a stop in the road are leaving streaks of white and yellow into the air. His own breath lifts and tosses about in front of his face. Nearly every color of the rainbow.

“Grab him, someone fucking _grab him_ , I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing-“ Flash hollers, sounding completely terrified now.

Years of running and fast reflexes are a mean combo. It’s easy to slip under the pair of arms trying to encircle him and he weaves through another couple attempting to stand in his way without stopping. He runs into the small gap in the crowd, growing smaller and smaller by the minute as more people trickle over. Someone’s fingers push through the air around him, so thick he can grab it. His spidey-sense tells him he’s going to be tugged away in a matter of seconds.

Miles jumps.

” _ **Miles!**_ ”

His fingerpads cling to the metal, heart skipping at the subtle, but unmistakable shift from slippery human fingers to sticky-rough. The drumming of hands rattles beneath him as a pair of adults try to grab him again. He shimmies down, as easily as using a ladder, until he’s just out of reach. The panic attack has crested. He feels lighter than _air_. Miles leans down the metal bar, shuffles to the right.

Then his right shoe slips and his brain screeches to a stop.

Miles grinds his fingers into the metal, pressing his chest and stomach and forehead against it for good measure and _freezing_. A shrill voice calls from above. Flash follows not a moment later. He uses his palpitating heart as a stopwatch, counting down to finally opening one eye…then the other. Then inhaling. Then exhaling. …He hasn’t fallen. He’s alive. He stares down at the contrast of his foot dangling in the open air, one red sneaker against the bright blue blanket of the ocean below.

“…I-It’s okay, Miles.” He whispers, nails scraping against the bridge and popping rusty flakes into the breeze. “It’s okay. I-It’s just like c-climbing a t-tree.”

It’s nothing like climbing a tree. He’s on the side of the Golden Gate Bridge hundreds of feet above the water and he’s going to _die_. Possibilities slide through his mind in television channels, blipping into other noise as soon as he catches _any_ sort of useful information, one after another after another after another.

He can’t do this. He _has_ to do this or he’s let down the memory of everyone who has ever mattered to him. She’s too far away still. He can’t reach her without getting too close and risking her being scared and falling and he might faint if he budges more than an _inch_ , anyway. He’s going to fall. He could use a web and save himself, except he _won’t_ save himself, because if he uses a web people will see and know his secret. It’s only a matter of time until they find him, anyway, and he’s just been delaying the inevitable. He can’t save her, he can’t save himself, he couldn’t save Peter and Michelle. He’s going to die. He’s going to die. He’s going to die. He’s going to die. _He’s going to die_.

People are already recording. He can’t see past the overhang, but his hearing ticks off at least eight phones being held out and clicking away. This is bad. He needs to go back up. Right now. They’ll find him, then his family, then his friends. Miles presses his face against the metal, colder than ice, and shakes.

He has to go. He can’t. He’s going to die. He _has_ to go back up. He can’t. If he quits she’ll die. If he quits…if he just lets her _fall_ …

”Fucking _hell_ -“ Flash is roaring from the guardrail. “Miles! _Miles!_ Fuck, someone go down and grab him, _help me_ , goddammit, I can’t fucking get to him-“

The wind is making his eyes so dry. Miles blinks over the hump of his shoulder at the woman. She’s only a few feet away.

…What did people _do_ during things like this? He couldn’t ever watch videos of people talking down suicidal attempts because they hit too hard, but now he’s wishing he pressed play. Spidey-sense slowed down time. It didn’t _stop_ time. He has to think of something, just one little thing, to get her to reach out and take his hand. If she jumps he _might_ be able to grab her with his web, but then they’ll find him, and it won’t just be him who’s hurt. They might get to Mom. To Aaron. To Mr. Brock. Even in his wildest daydreams he could never assume they’d stop trying to find him.

They killed Peter and Michelle. They would’ve been in college by now.

Miles shuffles one inch. Then another. …Then another. Close enough that he can see the patterns on her jacket. Polka dots.

“E-Excuse me.”

God, he’s an idiot. His voice is swallowed up by the breeze like he said nothing at all. Miles gulps at the clog sticking his throat together. What’s he supposed to _say?_ Does he ask if she’s okay? Does he tell her he’s thought of doing this same exact thing since he was ten? That doesn’t matter. The wind is still trying to push the entire bridge over. There’s only so much time he has before he passes out and falls straight down, himself. Until he never has to look again.

“What’s your name?”

Her hair is a messy cloud. He can only tell she’s looking at him when her shoulders move and the cluster of color surrounding her turns an abrupt shade of neon yellow.

“I’m M-Miles.”

Damn it, he wishes the crowd would stop yelling. It might just be his oversensitive ears or the roar of blood in his veins, but they’re _loud_ , and he’s feeling the beginning of hyperventilation in the pit of his heart. Miles relaxes his face into the one he wears in class and on the sidewalk during rough days, in case she _can_ see him. Calm. Friendly. Anyone else would miss her next words:

“ _I’m scared_.”

That. He can work with that.

“I’m scared, too.” He calls, edging closer. “I-I’ve…I’ve thought of doing this, too. A lot, actually. Why are you here right now?”

The crowd’s voices die down to a scattered mutter. The clicking slows down, too. They’re listening.

”I just don’t want to live.” Her voice is raw. She’s been crying. “I just…”

The yellow grows sharper. It’s starting to hurt, navigating slow time and the reality of the matter, straining behind his eyes in a supernatural migraine. Miles holds out a hand.

“Let me help you up.”

“ _I can’t_.” A dry sob. “I can’t, I’m gonna fall, I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna fall.“

”It’s okay. It’s okay, I’m stronger than I look.” His smile shakes almost as much as his fingers. “Lemme carry you back up-”

Then she slips. It’s just a little jerk, a half-inch only he can see from his vantage, but he goes completely numb and can already see her body dipping down in his mind’s eye.

” _Oh god-_ ” She bawls, fingernails scraping as she hits her back against the metal. “Oh god, oh god, _oh god_ -“

”It’s okay, it’s okay! Just breathe, just breathe, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

It’s not just his spidey-sense that makes the seconds tick by at negative digits. They’ve already been here too long. Can he blame her? He’s a scrawny teenage twig telling her to hop on his back and let him shimmy up the side of a bridge during one of the windiest days in California. She’s shaking so hard he can feel it. A fly in a web, struggling in desperation and making things worse. She doesn’t have his sticky fingers or reflexes. One slip and that’s it. He needs to come up with something. Anything. _Now_.

”Listen. Listen. I’m trained in stuff like this.” He’s had to lie to himself to get this far. What was one more? ”Yeah. Yeah, I’m older than I look. Here, just grab onto my back and let me get you up before you slip. Your grip is too slippery. You gotta let me do it, though.” He tries a laugh. “It’s just like climbing a tree.”

…Now he sees her eyes. Brown, like his mom’s. She starts to reach out, then recoils and clutches the metal again. This repeats one time. Then two. Then the hand reaches out for him…and stays. The same size as his.

“There you go. Come on.” He grips it firmly. “I won’t let you fall.”

She’s not heavy. He could lift a small car, if he wanted. Her nails dig into his shirt sleeve like a cat’s. She starts to pull back to clutch the bridge again, so Miles holds onto her just as tight, knowing bruises are a pretty small price to pay. His spidey-sense has slowed down. It has to take a backseat, now that they’re working together, and his heart palpitates so hard it _hurts_ as she slowly, shakily wraps arms around his shoulders, then legs around his waist. He wants to tell her that’s a great idea, but he’s not sure his voice works anymore. No…right now he’s staring up at the guardrail and the field of faces peering down at them. There are so many. Wait, when did more people get here?

At first she whimpers, when they start moving, and sends more white around his head in a fog cloud. Then it turns orange when he doesn’t so much as slip as he clambers over the criss-cross of metal and grabs the wood that pads out the guardrail. The brown and beige faces get closer and closer. Then they’re gone, replaced by shirt logos and hands and a _lot_ of noise. He’s abruptly lighter and feels some sort of distant, needle-sharp point of panic. But he didn’t drop her. The woman has two feet on the concrete and is being taken away from him by someone in uniform. But, wait, he still didn’t get her name…

”Miles, _Miles_ , get over here, the hell were you thinking, my goddamn heart was about to give out-“ Flash is reaching out to him, but he’s having a hard time breaking through the crowd. He outright elbows someone in the side to get them to move. “Get the fuck back here, Miles, get over here, Jesus fucking shit goddamn Christ-“

Stunned faces…swirling lights. The neon layers of his enhanced senses blur away to reveal the bright blue eggshell sky. There’s a lot of yelling. A lot of flapping clothes and shiny car tops and wind. He could really go for his headphones right now. Someone asks him for his name. He’s Miles. Miles Morales. Another person asks if he’s okay. Not usually, no, but maybe later, when he grinds through some dungeons and eats dinner. Right, he…needs to text Mom again now that the hour’s almost up. A big pair of arms wrap around his waist in a bear hug. Flash is red in the face. For once, he isn’t yelling.

“…I did it, Peter.” Miles whispers, too low to hear over the commotion.

_“I did it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miles wakes up on a stranger’s rooftop in Glen Park many, _many_ blocks away from home. He comes home to a terrified mother and uncle who were sure he’d been kidnapped or killed.
> 
> He gets into a screaming match with Aaron, venting years of bitterness and anger, and Aaron vents back about his own fears and frustrations. Later that night Rio confesses she’s the one responsible for sending him to New York, explaining her decision had less to do with his father leaving and uncle being sent to jail and more her being too afraid for him to witness her deteriorating mental health. While Miles is handed a new curfew and reduced privileges, everyone is just glad he’s home. If anything, he’s much harder on himself.
> 
> While racking up more extracurricular hours at the Golden Community Center a few days later, under the supervision of Flash Thompson, Miles finds himself more despondent than ever. He lives up to the Center’s motto of ‘a little bit of hope’ when he helps Kaeki down from a tree, though he feels like anything _but_ a hero as overstimulation gets worse and he worries about being caught for his break-in at Pretty Slope. When he can’t take any more socializing he asks Flash if he can go to the Golden Gate Bridge to clear his head. The man, grateful for his help throughout the day, accompanies him.
> 
> When they arrive a young woman is in the middle of a suicide attempt. Miles finds out he can reach his very best when he’s at his worst.
> 
> \--
> 
> Here’s another whump chapter for all your whump needs. It’s only going to get whumpier!
> 
> Also, I try not to say this too much because I'd just be a broken record otherwise, but thank you _so_ much for all your wonderful feedback. It makes my day when I see a new message in my inbox. I love knowing what sticks with you, what you’re curious about, anything you feel like sharing.
> 
> The game Gwen brings up is inspired by a browser-based app I sometimes use, where you can create little galaxies and constellations. It's great for when my mind won't stop working, but I need to de-stress instead of throwing myself into _yet_ another project.


	9. Alien Remains Found On The Californian Coast!!! High Def Photos Under The Cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for classist remarks, explicit depictions of harassment, suicidal ideation, alcoholic relapse and an attempted murder. 
> 
> Chapter Song – “Erode” by TENDER

“I think it’s your best work _yet_.”

Well, wasn’t _he_ chuffed. Not exactly a small pile to top, either. Eddie grins and runs a hand through his hair, shrugging one shoulder and putting on a humble little show for their floor of forty. Maybe Sam was a bit of a kiss-ass, but that didn’t make it any less true.

The guy’s sentiment is echoed with accompanying chuckles and half-toasts, which he returns on his way off the makeshift stage. He glances into the punch bowl’s shiny surface to double-check his coif. It turned out pretty nice today, if he says so himself. Coupled with the button-up and carefully trimmed beard (not _too_ long, not _too_ short) he was definitely the sleeper hit of the evening. Jacob’s still being fawned over by the interns, but he’s caught the eye of May at least twice, and that’s _much_ better for business. Not that he’d ever act on it, of course. Anything more than a flattering wink is just asking for a one-way ticket to Hell.

“Ah, come on, now.” Eddie says over the pitter-patter of applause (that has yet to peter off). “You know the best is just around the corner. I’m not content to be the Aeronaut’s one-hit wonder yet!”

That earns him a few hard laughs. Here he was, set to get tipsy on conversation and free drinks and now thinking about the applause his next piece will get. If they were thrilled about his unveiling of O’Sullivan’s possible money laundering, oh, they were going to lose their _heads_ over his op-ed. The stage has been set already…all Eddie Charles Brock had to do was deliver. In fact, it wouldn’t even be suspicious if he nipped off early to go give that final draft a little more love before bed. He never misses a shindig, though. Just not his style. The second he opens his mouth to share his _killer_ opening line he catches a bright blonde head among the brunettes and dye-jobs. Platinum, not Hollywood starlet. It can only be-

“Annie!” He sidles on through the mingling, careful not to bump any shoulders. “Sweetie! What are you doing here?”

His wife’s never given a hoot about business casual outings. When she’s not giving him a blank stare at the mere suggestion she’s turning him down more consistently than a financial aid applicant. Phew, he _needs_ to see her in that little black dress more often. It outlines her curves like an illustrator’s favorite fountain pen. She’s got bold red lipstick on, too, and a silvery eyeshadow he’s…never seen her wear. Huh. Come to think of it, what was she doing here, anyway? ‘Just One Forgave-Me-Not’ starts to play on the rental speakers, which really _is_ an interesting choice. Depression bops were best saved for headphones, weren’t they?

”You look gorgeous, sweetheart-“ He leans in to give her a chaste little peck. She slaps a hand on his chest and freezes him in place.

“You need to get up, Eddie.”

“Get…up?” Mm, this is a little awkward. He’d happily put a date on the domestic row once they got home. “Ask Sam, I’m right on time-“

She plants that finely-manicured hand more firmly on his collar and, of _all_ things, _pushes_ him. Eddie blinks and stumbles so hard he nearly drops his drink. Hell in a basket, that’s an expensive office party cocktail! He licks excess off his fingers and fixes her with a frown.

“ _Jesus!_ Why do you have to be like this, right now? This can’t wait until we’re home?”

Anne’s mouth crinkles with a growl more suited to an overworked crossguard than his wife. Eddie cringes. Why’d she pick the bi-annual Aeronaut celebration as her night to get experimental with…well, _everything?_ In fact, he wasn’t going to stop there. Since when did she wear over-the-top smoky eye? He gulps when the growl transforms into a snarl. In fact…since when did she have three-inch long _fangs?_ The Halloween party isn’t for two months! The music dies down, right with the light strings, to be replaced by a dark pall and the honking of traffic outside. He makes a mental note to tell the DJ to step it back up and takes a cautious step forward.

”Annie? Sweetheart, honey, talk to me, what’s going on-“

”- _up_.”

”…Excuse me?”

He doesn’t even have the time to suck in the breath needed for a yelp. Not with how fast she lunges forward and grabs his neck with both hands, nails pricking into his skin-

“ _I said you need to get_ -“

“-up! Hey! _Get up!_ ”

Eddie mumbles and wriggles. …Ew. His mattress is cold. Wet, too. Hell in a basket, not again. This isn’t the first time he’s passed out in his own vomit, but he’s _pretty_ sure he signed a personal clause stipulating he’d never pull that shit after the Laura House. He opens his eyes, then instantly crushes them shut at the glare. _Ow_. Well, he’s outside, that much is clear. Something nudges his side, far too rough to be a curious kid or a dog, and he creaks his eyes back open like an old lady through her window blinds. …Goddamn, it’s _freezing_. His limbs are numb and it takes him a few moments to recognize his bare arms for what they are. … _Why_ , though?

He rolls over onto his back and squints up at two officers, staring down at him against a dull morning blue. …Oh, crap.

“Hey, hey, sorry, officer. I was just-“

…dying. Yeah, he was dying, but he’s not dead, and the look he’s getting is making it clear this is _not_ a point in his favor.

“Get up.” Another hard nudge that makes his ribs twinge. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Right, right, right, of course-“

Two hands drag him to his feet by the back of his shirt when he doesn’t stand up in a split second. Fucking pigs. Eddie’s frustration evaporates when he sees the state of himself. …Where the hell are his shoes? His _pants?_ Christ alive, no _wonder_ he’s freezing. With a meek smile he rubs at his biceps and secretly thanks his iron habit of wearing a tank and briefs to bed. That, and always leaving his cell in his pocket. Old habits die hard.

”What are you doing on the sidewalk?” The one with shades asks. Probably keeps them on to look mysterious, because it’s not nearly sunny enough for them.

”Yeah, uh, sorry. Just a long night, you know how it is-“

”Where are your clothes?”

”Yeah, I don’t really, um…I’m not sure-“

”Do you have ID?”

Eddie smiles and makes a show of patting his pockets (and pretending he has back pockets at all) to stall for time.

‘ _Hey. Hey, hey, goopster, slimy, buddy. I need some help_.’

Nothing.

‘ _Look, if you’re still stitching yourself back together after the motel I get it, that’s fine, can you just say something? Anything?_ ’ It said it can’t read all his thoughts, but these jackasses are looking at him dead-center and he needs a helping hand _now_ and that’s got to be enough to get the point across, right? Eddie keeps the smile plastered firmly on, pats along his briefs again and starts creating pictures. ‘ _Okay. Okay, listen. Don’t have my wallet and he wants an ID. It looks like this-_ ‘ He thinks of it as clearly as he can with Shades starting to look seriously impatient. ‘ _-don’t care if the details are perfect, I just gotta flash something out quick or they’ll lock me up, like that thing I told you about? Buddy, come on, this isn’t funny_ -‘

“Well?”

Eddie rummages around one more time, just in case he missed it on the first pass. …Zilch. One of the officers pulls out their two-way and calls someone over.

…Hell.

* ~ - ~ *

A bag of chips or a water bottle?

He’s starving, but he also doesn’t want to constantly run back and forth between restaurant fountains if he can help it. Maybe he should see how long he can last and cart the lone dollar around in case something else comes up. Food kitchen would have extra. … _God_ , he’s hungry, though. That entire pizza feels even more distant than his house, car and marriage. When he’s called from the lobby he almost breathes a sigh of relief that the hardest decision of the day isn’t one he has to make.

”Behave yourself.” Now that he’s dressed the receptionist doesn’t stare quite _as_ hard. It’s probably for the best. “I’d rather not see you back here a second time.”

”Will do, ma’am. You have a good one.”

The day’s still cold, but at least he’s no longer barefoot. The sneakers look like shit, though. Eddie tugs up the loaned UCSF hoodie – a place he’d been accepted to without question back when he wasn’t a sham, his brain is _kind_ to remind him – and heads out into his day. He knows this song and dance. People might as well call it the Charles Brock Shuffle at this point. Goodness knows he could use the royalties.

The motel’s a wreck. Fire’ll do that. His room is torched and so is most of the eastern part of the third and second floor. He’ll have to head over to the pack and mingle with the usual for the next ‘two to four weeks’ as The Gulf is repaired, provided Deborah lets him back in at all. The woman might be slightly more than a willowy tower of salt and spite, telling him when he calls that he’ll be welcome back once the renovations are over thanks to his noble deed, but he tries not to get his hopes up. It’s not like he did what he did to rest his case. It just needed to be done and now he’s out a bed and a roof.

It is what it is.

His tiniest and most well-received blessing was _not_ being recognized at the precinct. Law enforcement and social workers were both predictably ‘unhappy’ about finding him in his underwear on a sidewalk by Larkin, right. Weren’t they always so _miffed_ at having to lay witness to their human garbage? Eddie was counting down the seconds until they connected him to the concussion Diane’s husband got or even the mass photos of lifting a screaming woman in the air at The Wharf that probably _definitely_ got uploaded to Facebook, but, nope. Just a dime-a-dozen twenty questions with a hearty helping of social scorn. He didn’t even have to ask for seconds.

He bunks with a friend of Julie’s for the night, though that’s all they’re willing to offer since Julie and Iris made plans to hang out until The Gulf’s patched back up. Jake lives in a virtual rat hole that’s not so much _cheap_ as it is poorly maintained, but he rolls a mean joint, and for a few hours Eddie completely forgets about how much everything sucks with his head in Iris’s lap and the ceiling turning into a lost Jackson Pollock piece. He offers to eat her out as a thank-you, but she tells him he’ll just stare into her crotch for an hour. Hell, she’s probably right. It’d look much better, too.

”I mean it, Charles.” Julie takes great care to repeat on the dirty front steps of the house the following morning. It’s cold as shit without the symbiote giving him a boost. He really underestimated how much it warms him up when it’s awake. ”Just call me. If you can’t find another place to stay just come on by and we’ll try to work something out.”

”Hey, it’s all right, I got options.” Eddie tugs up the spare jacket they gave him, a little too big and way better than nothing. ”You’re a peach, Jules.”

* ~ - ~ *

Next night’s on the streets.

It’s no big deal just dozing off by a halfway house (though he has to wake up every hour to make sure he’s still got his shoes). He’s _not_ going to stay with Mary. She’s just about moved in with Claire and Carl at this point and just the thought of one _week_ under that roof is enough to make him want to forgo the standard bullet and walk into the path of an oncoming car. What little money he’s got left in the bank after the last deposit’s going to go to bus fare and food. Eddie checks his pulse as he shuffles onto his next bus and marches in and out of Tenderloin’s labyrinth. Every once in a while he checks his pulse and counts. Getting in his minimum is going to be easier than ever.

When he starts seeing the world in black and white he just figures that’s his mind truly popping off from chronic stress. Granted, he had no earthly clue he _could_ temporarily go colorblind out of nowhere, but weirder things have happened. It’s just kind of annoying when he’s trying to flatter his way into not seeming suspicious but can’t even tell what shade the receptionist’s hair is. The shaky hands and his center of gravity turning into a theory made him fit in at the house, but _really_ doesn’t bode well elsewhere. The woman constantly glancing at him like he’s going to hold her at knifepoint just isn’t fair. He couldn’t even hold the knife straight if he _wanted_ to.

While he stands outside of the bank and fumbles through his change he catches the television across the street in the corner of his eye. A familiar frown, braids and baby, this time with a mic in her face instead of a cigarette. Pre-Telechrome, now.

” _It’s the kind of tale you only ever expect to read about. You really think someone saved you?_ ” The reporter asks Sofía over the consistent whine of a kid not happy about all the noise.

” _Not someone. Some **thing**._ ”

The tellers inside are doubling down on that funny look through the glass. Time to fuck off. Eddie jogs through the pause in the cars and heads for the soup kitchen. Sofía’s face goes dreamy before it vanishes out of his perimeter and, probably, what little remains of his life in-between spam scrambles and weed.

” _And what was that ‘something’?_ ”

” _A monster_.”

* ~ - ~ *

Third day is a little bit of a setback.

The colorblindness doesn’t go away, nor do the headaches and on-again, off-again desires to fall over dead. It takes him the better part of two hours to work up the will to begin a mortifying conversation with Mary about his lost ID and ‘falling behind’ again. Thing is, he can _manage_ without a roof over his head or laptop (barely), but he’s going to need that identification to buy booze and keep moral guardians at bay. His sister sends him a little extra cash, both to cover the cost and pay off a fee. She also pries for more information as best she can, bless her, but eventually accepts his story about flood damage and a dip in articles.

” _…Worried about you, Ed._ ” Mary sighs. “ _You’ve been going through a lot._ ”

”Don’t be, Contrary.” He says, glad his quivering mouth is his to deal with. “Just means better days are right around the corner.”

” _You really can come by, you know. Sometimes it helps to step away from it all and hang out somewhere else. It’s kind of nice hopping between two bedrooms, even if it’s a lot of extra gas._ ”

’ _That’s just it, Mary._ ’ Eddie pinches his nose and listens to her talk about a movie she saw, receiver held as far away from his mouth as possible. ‘ _I’m not supposed to do any of that. Wasn’t supposed to even be here talking to you._ ’

He’ll have to swing by the library to knock out more articles once he figures out his ID (and once he picks a fake address to get a library card in the _first_ place). Until then it’s calling acquaintances and hoping there are some chumps willing to pay decent for a handjob. It all might not be so bad with a little extra company, but…it seems like the alien’s gone up in smoke with the rest.

Eddie figures this out, once his shock has gone off its proper auto-pilot, that he’s been… _off_. The twitchiness just seemed like a lack of alcohol. The loneliness, well…that never really went away, either. Then his appetite, which has always been big, but not _nearly_ as ravenous. He’s been writing it off bullet-list style as the alien going through another one of its silent periods. They’d been pretty fucked-up after stumbling out of that heap. Why _wouldn’t_ it need a few sick days? It’s just that the first day has already gone by. So has the second. Now he’s in the middle of the third and realizing something awful.

There’s no characteristic ripple through his veins or mutter in his mind. His dreams are the usual gamut of long trips through his childhood interspersed with classic weirdness. He doesn’t even feel like he’s being watched.

It’s just… _gone_.

The bus hits a pothole and bounces everyone in the coach. Eddie apologizes when he knocks shoulders into a mother and her daughter, then goes back to rubbing a hand through his hair.

…Did it _die?_ …No. No, it couldn’t have, he…he _held_ it, gave it his body, everything he had from what little he had _left_. It dropped from the sky onto a foreign planet after going through some indescribable Hell far off in the stars, a tough son-of-a-bitch at the best of times, completely fearless, it couldn’t…just go out because of something like _that_. But that’s the thing with observational research. It’s all he has and he was his first and last witness.

This…should be a good thing. It should be _great_. That creature was a double-edged sword to the _letter_. Ever since it set up shop in his body he didn’t act the same. It made him trip balls, controlled him multiple times with the barest shred of consent. Even worse, something about its presence made him violent. Lash out. That’s _not_ how he acted! He wasn’t his father – he didn’t treat emotions like a powder keg and every tiny thing as tinder – and he never planned to be. Hell, it fucking tried to throttle him when they were already a melting mess! There was a temper and then there was _that_ H.R. Giger shit.

Eddie shudders at the memory of his own face screaming down at him. Who knows what creative Hell it could’ve gotten up to in another week or two?

Then whatever the fuck happened on that pier…Jesus Christ, it’s _nothing_ he wants to be involved with. He’s as curious as the next person, sure, but what happened to that family was straight-up possession. Contract nothing. He’s got no idea what its other’s problem is and he shouldn’t stick around to find out. …Even if it _was_ a can of worms someone else was going to open eventually. If anyone’s going to know what’s simmering beneath the 415’s surface, it should be him, right? Besides. That was the only time he’d felt the symbiote truly disturbed. It showed a _lot_ of colors, but that unsettled, confused blue? That wasn’t one of them.

Fuck. The whole scenario could’ve been the catalyst…the launching pad for Eddie Charles Brock to get down and dirty with new life forms. A mission from above, in _every_ sense of the word. …No. No, no. He’s done with all that. Finished. _Kaput_. He dragged his own damn name through the mud and hasn’t even gotten to the part where he dusts himself off. Right now he needs to save his hope that the pack will accept him back in after all that shit he said back in the day.

Yeah. He’s thrilled to _finally_ be rid of it and back on his bullshit. A few more people sidle onto the bus, breathing out a lot of nice warmth into the air and pushing back the chill. The mother and her daughter make a game out of counting how many people are sitting down.

The lie barely survives five minutes.

…He misses it. Fuck, it feels wrong to call it an ‘it’, but they didn’t have enough time to get to second base and create a name or any other pronoun, did they? Mean-tempered and pushy as it was, the alien _still_ looked out for him. It saved him from the fire, from being shot point-blank by Diane’s husband. From _himself_ , and goddamn if he wasn’t his own worst enemy on the _best_ of days. Never mind it calling him out on his crap and not giving his insecurities the time of day (it’s only during these lucid periods he can even call his vices _vices_ at all). Yeah…yeah, he’s met folk like it before. People with a hard kernel of goodness deep down, wrapped up in a thousand layers of ice and bile and just needing a little bit of sunlight. Patience, a little grace. Eddie didn’t have much, but he had plenty of that, and he wishes…he _wishes_ he could’ve given it a little more.

The bus bounces again, but not nearly rough enough to derail his train of thought. A guardian angel that spoke in Crayon colors, called him out on drinking too much and went out into the night after calling him a fucking tool. Eddie covers his mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. The funniest part is…he probably hallucinated the whole goddamn _thing_.

”Mom, what’s he laughing at?” The tiny girl asks her mother beneath his hysterical giggle fit.

”Shh, sweetie.”

Tourist activity is all but non-existent when he steps off and picks the shuffle back up. It’s the little details that announces a skid row. Street sweeping services slacking off, the air getting that sour-yet-musty tang. He wonders if Manny is still the unofficial ‘leader’. Ha. Eddie chuckles out loud at that cute stereotype of the ‘king of the homeless’, as wise and broke as Jesus. His memory’s having a very fun time spitting back all his most painful moments, because he recalls being told while bunking here after his stint at the Laura House how _he_ could’ve been a leader-type figure. Manny himself said he had a way with people, able to suck people in with wordplay and incite calls to action without being a car salesman about it. There was just that little thing of being completely mortified at finding himself at the bottom of his fall from grace.

” _You really thought the world was promised you, huh? Feeling some of the sting, white guy?_ ”

” _Oh, yeah? Ha, that what you’re going off of, that oppression Olympics shit? Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t think they offer a Bachelor’s in Victimization._ ”

The pack has a few different haunts across the city, but stands out for both size and consistency. What outsiders don’t pick up is the _other_ change in the air. The weary camaraderie beneath the cigarette smoke and body funk. Eddie doesn’t miss the way his shoulders relax when he sidles into the familiar mutter and laughter of the 415’s vagabonds. At one point he’d been ashamed of being here. Now _that_ makes him ashamed.

” _Second verse, same as the first_.” Anne laughs in his mind, straw spinning in her cocktail and twinkling the ice. “ _You’re certainly consistent, Eddie._ ”

Eddie tugs off his jacket and glances at the two wolves tattooed on his left arm. Bud and Lou, Romulus and Remus, whatever he called them at the time they remained a symbol of the pack. The tattoo he got the third time he came here (and the first time he admitted to himself he had no choice). A visual shorthand to communicate that nobody was truly alone, not if they had just _one_ friend willing to run with them. It hadn’t been Manny’s idea, but a guy named Tom who showed up out of nowhere and, in classic squatter fashion, disappeared just as quick. He’d been one hell of an artist. In typical artist fashion he’d made jack shit off his talent by virtue of being too alive.

”You forgot me, but it’s okay. It’ll come back ‘round…” He mutters as he steps over backpacks and edges past huddled shoulders. “…another way.”

”Yo, I love that fucking song.” Someone says to his right. Eddie smiles.

”Beat’s an earworm, but, yeah. It’s all right.”

He slings it over one shoulder, then scratches at his heavy stubble as he picks a place to start…living. It’s getting a little scraggly. Another person mutters about him to his left. Hey. What’s up. The pack’s got enough of a culture, and is insular enough, that outsiders stick out pretty easily. Didn’t matter it was hundreds full and San Fran maintained a steady stream of new social rejects. Kids tossed out for coming out. New addicts, relapsed addicts, addicts in denial. Immigrants who didn’t get the foothold and ‘everyday’ people who got a little _too_ unlucky. The wolves here are pretty settled into their own schedules, but eyes flick to his arm, anyway. Going from suspicious or nervous to relaxed in a drumbeat.

Yeah. He’s one of them. Been one of them for years and might not ever leave.

Two people are using something nice behind a cluster of bins, if their euphoric expressions are anything to go by. Eddie stops walking and stares. He’s tempted to ask if they have extra, but he’s barely got anything on him as it is. These tremors have barely been held at bay by weed and constant moving, but now that he’s slowed down his body doubles down on the shivering nausea. Fuck, his stomach hurts. Maybe he can just ask. Never hurts...

”Hey, man! Remember _you_ , man-“ That guy with the cute little Freddie Mercury dog is here. “Remember me? You helped me out so much that day, I never got to thank you.“

”It’s nothing. It was nothing.” Eddie hugs him and accepts the clap on the shoulder with a smile. He really can’t think about that night right now. “Glad you’re doing well. Beard new?”

”What? Beard? _My_ beard? Ha, no. Never.”

The dog sniffs at his fingers and wags her stubby little tail. She looks a little thinner. Eddie scritches her head.

”Hey there, cutie. Remember me, too?”

He finally finds out his name’s George. It’s old-fashioned sounding enough to make him wonder if it’s an alias, so he accepts being called Eddie without correction. It’s just nice to sit and talk with someone, even if it’s not about anything in particular. Eddie hunches next to him with the dog’s head on his thigh and offers his thoughts on whether or not the government would bother putting chips in people’s brains at birth. Someone George knows bought a few packs of beer today and is spreading the love. They hand him one immediately. Years since he’s been here and nobody’s forgotten. That, or he’s just _clearly_ in need of a drink. Whichever it is, he downs it in three swigs and gladly accepts a second. _Hell_ , that hits the spot. His hands are already starting to shake less.

”Georgie, no, listen here. They’d do it. You _know_ they’re more than happy to waste funds to keep us in check. Smelly rabble-rousers and degenerates. Never about logic or conservation, any of that shit they peddle. It’s power, is what it is. Pure, petty _power_.” Eddie bobs the half-full can. “Hey, whatever happened to him, anyway? Manny? If anyone’d get a chip it’d be him.”

”Went missing, man.” George replies, and gives Freddie’s ears a ruffle. “What I heard, anyway.”

Eddie rubs a thumb over the condensation clouding the beer logo, then downs the rest in one gulp.

In-between introducing and reintroducing himself he manages to wheedle a third and get a hard buzz fuzzing his brain. It tastes like shit, to be frank, but it’s cold and it’s _strong_. He’s not going to piss off after taking a bunch of beer, either, because that’s _rude_ , so he takes up an offer to join in on a round of whatever poker. Not like he has anything to give up, but Amy here says they could use a referee to make sure nobody’s cheating, and _that_ he can do. By the time a fight’s broken out (little more than a shove and some cursing) he’s counting his sips and soaking in the easy warmth balled in the small of his back. Then his cell buzzes. It’s probably Mary, following through on that suspicion or asking for some moving advice. Both.

” _Brock?_ ” Miles chirps on the other end when he picks up. “ _Um, hi_.”

Eddie grins. Well, there’s a little back pocket cheer!

”Charles, you’re supposed to be _watching!_ ” Amy squawks, pinching his pant leg when he stands up. Woman’s not about to let go of her investment any time soon. “I don’t trust this son-of-a-bitch _nowhere-_ “

”Hold on, lemme take this real quick.” Eddie gives her hand a pat, then crushes his can beneath his heel and sidles out of the circle to find somewhere to put it. Bunking with Nicolas left him with a pretty eco-friendly streak.

”I _mean_ it, Charles, I got $20 on the line-“

”Yeah, yeah, okay. Sure. Be back.” He makes a bad throw to a trash bin by the wall, then flaps an arm to off-set his wobble. …Ah. Ha, ha. On second thought, maybe he should’ve kept his ass on the ground. ”Hey, hey, Speedster.” He tries to push his tongue into working order. “What’s up?”

” _Um, just checking in. You haven’t dropped by in a bit and I just wanna know you’re doing all right? Not trying to, like, bother you or anything._ ”

Time for a little digging. Kid sounds…tuckered out. Bummed out, too. Yeah, that’s not surprising, since he’s got a bad case of headcase and is apparently some superhuman hybrid wandering the city in a cloud of solitude. Time to spread the positivity.

”Mm, yeah, ‘m ‘olding up.” Not for long if he doesn’t find a pole or a box to lean on, though. “You never bother me, kid. You at the Center?”

” _Uh, yeah. I’m with Mr. Thompson right now_ ” Ha, he’s gotta stop calling him that. Guy hates it. “ _Um…Flash. Just been making crafts and helping visitors get situated. I helped Kaeki hang up some paper stars. Stuff like that_.”

”Oh, ha ha. Mm, yeah, well done, she’s gonna love you for life.” Eddie rubs his face and tugs on his beard. What was the alcohol content in those cans again? “’m glad you’re still keeping up. Heard you hadn’t been around for a bit, got a little worried, there.”

” _Right._ ” A long pause. “ _I’m sorry_.”

Eddie slowly frowns. Miles was always apologizing, for one reason or another. Kind of reminds him of Mary, when she gets in one of her moods and turns into the family martyr. Just like that, his eyes grow hotter than a bout with seasonal allergies. Beer’s such a shit. Makes him feel better _and_ completely terrible. Like dumb weather. Ah, he can’t take this out on him. Children aren’t counselors, not that he needed one. He’s gotta come up with an excuse to piss off, even though he _wants_ to chat. After what they talked about at Dizzy Street a few pieces have finally clicked. Kid’s clearly reeling from his messy home life and looking for a substitute to pad out the hurt.

”Hey, uh, listen, I’d love to chat some more, but I got a few things that need doing.” It fucking burns, that little dip in Miles’s voice, and he offers him a few additional words of encouragement to hopefully take the sting off. A dig at Flash will hopefully keep the guy humble around the kid.

When he returns to the poker game it’s wrapped up, not that he’s really feeling much in the way of playing referee at this point. He’s appropriately settled back in the pack without fanfare and wants to celebrate with a nap, but he wasn’t crazy about those things to begin with. Fucked up the sleep schedule. A better distraction comes in the form of a hat covered in pins and badges.

“ _Charles!_ Charles, Charles, you mother _fucker-_ “

Eddie nearly goes toppling over from the force of Darryl’s hug (though the bad balance is mostly that last swig kicking in). Oh, _good_. He’s looking _good_. Smoke inhalation’s a terrible thing, but he doesn’t have so much as a cough. Eyes are looking clear, too, if a little bloodshot from…tears? Yeah, tears. Darryl doesn’t say anything as Eddie cups his cheeks between both hands and inspects him closely.

“They told me how you saved my ass at the motel.” The guy’s eyes are growing misty and fast. “I’m sorry I haven’t contacted you, man. I mean it, I’ve just been all over the place. The hell can I even give you for what you did?“

“Hold up… _told_ you? What, you don’t remember me barging in like the Kool-Aid Man?” Eddie laughs. Darryl scoffs, _now_ pushing his hands off to better rub at his eyes.

“I don’t remember _shit_ , man. Passed out ten minutes later and thought it was a fever dream.”

”Shit, I still do.” He claps him on the back and gives him a little rattle to jolt him out of it. Not that crying wasn’t a good habit, but he probably doesn’t want a scene right now. That, and if he starts then _he_ definitely will. “Right, right, how’s the biz going?”

Damn it. Damn it, beer! Darryl deflates like a parade float that ran into a twelve-foot nail. His ‘shop’ was either a set-up in his motel room or by Lower Nob Hill for the foot traffic and people hitting that sweet spot of being on a budget but, more often than not, still having some cash to spare. The guy’s supplies were kept safe at The Gulf. That striped party rental tent he ‘forgot’ to give back to the supply store, some fold-out chairs, the signs. He salvaged the toolbox and some clothes in his backpack (from what he remembers while being covered in alien tar) but that’s about it. Eddie’s not surprised to see his business cards got out in one piece, though a few are charred black at the edges.

“Uh-huh. ‘Bout that. Was gonna head to Union and see if I could spread a few around. Maybe in and out of Nob.” Darryl frowns at the damaged ones. Guy would make a great hoarder if he weren’t so broke. “Lucky ten, you know. Keep to it, even when things get bad. Especially when things get bad.”

“Wouldn’t a lot of tourists kind of miss the point?” Eddie rubs his chin. “What with you being local and all.”

“As long as my brand’s getting out there that’s what counts.” Darryl rebukes with a wave of his cards. “Who knows? Maybe somebody knows somebody in bumfuck Georgia who knows somebody in Portland who knows someone in San Fran who needs a trim.”

Eddie hums and shrugs. Not how he would do it, but was he really in any position to give job advice? …Well, he _kind_ of was, but even that little claim to fame was melted down to shitty pennies. Distant thoughts of talking a long walk off a short pier start to buzz around at that. Good thing the alcohol’s still working.

”I actually just printed out a redesign. Thought maybe this one looked more colorful, more snazzy, you know?” He tugs out more from his back pocket strapped with a rubber band. “Whaddya think?”

Eddie squints. Dares N’ Deets. Dark gray…light gray.

“…Lemme help with that, then.” He tugs on his jacket. “Day’s finally warming up. Should be good weather for some handouts, huh?”

Darryl gives him this bulgy-eyed look, like he’d asked to huff his shaving cream. Did he?

“ _What?_ Charles, no, you’ve already done me a huge solid-“

“Come on, we’re friends.” He hugs him again. “It’s nothing. Let’s go spread the good word.”

Amy calls him a flake when they leave the camp and head for the nearest stop. Now _that’s_ a failure he can be proud of.

Lower Nob’s just as active as he’d expect it to be, give or take a few protests. It’s not too hard to flag people down and hand them cards (saving the burnt ones for last), with the buzz lasting just long enough for Eddie to fall back on his old charm. Unfortunately, good things never last. The symbiote would probably be huffing about this being a useless endeavor, handing out ‘paper things’ for ‘shiny things’. Try as he may, he can’t stop thinking about it. It might’ve been an asshole, but he knew damaged goods when he saw it. It saved his life, helped him save others. Kept him company. It wasn’t rotten, no matter how _many_ teeth and insults it threw at him. Now it’s gone. Gone, right alongside what passed for his home, what few things he had _and_ the shortest claim to sobriety he’s been able to make in years.

Darryl offers to treat him to a snack while they work their way up to the lucky ten. Eddie pardons himself on a bathroom excuse and shuffles off to some corner of some alley a block away he doesn’t bother trying to recognize, falling from his high so hard his chest burns. A galactic mystery. An unexpected friendship. They could’ve been _big_. Now he’ll never know. Eddie huddles next to an empty parked car in a cramped back lot and weeps.

‘ _God, if you’re listening, just…tell me it didn’t suffer_.’

Crying can be fucking exhausted. He does it pretty often, but this one just takes all the sauce out of him and makes his head hurt. Once he’s done he considers he might as well finish the job and takes a nice, long piss on a patch of dead grass poking through the concrete. When he heads back to Lower Nob evening traffic’s kicked up. He’s going to need to get drunk again. The pull of bad times is tugging harder and harder, stronger with every new minute he’s not passed out or swaying. Bad thoughts. Blurry days. Terrible decisions. It’s not so much a game plan as it is a series of distractions and _movement_ to put it off for as long as possible when he spots Darryl a few blocks away from the corner they’ve been haunting.

Darryl… _and_ three dudes in various states of business casual. Douchehawk. Black Rim Glasses. One so generic he can barely come up with a proper shorthand. Classic techbros from some gated community getting a whiff of the downtown life before retreating into their holes, probably. Eddie’s hackles raise at the pitch in their tones and their squared stances. …This isn’t asking for directions.

“Hey, man. Listen. I don’t want no trouble.” Darryl is saying as he gets closer, hands raised in some sort of half-shrug, half-dissuasion. He might’ve been trying to talk to someone in their car, because he’s right next to the street and near a crosswalk. “I’m just tryin’ to get my business off the ground, that’s all. Self-promo, you know?“

“Panhandling ain’t a business, bro.” One guy with glasses scoffs, bulling into his personal space with a disbelieving smile. “What are you ‘selling’? Crack? Meth?”

Eddie narrows his eyes.

“…Hey.” He raises his voice when they keep chattering. “Hey, _hey_. Leave him be, he’s not breaking any laws here.”

“Chill, man.” Douchehawk says, not looking at him. “This doesn’t involve you.”

“Actually, it _does_ , because I’m helping him out.” Eddie whips out a card and holds it right in front of the guy’s nose, underlining it with one finger. “See that? Dares N’ Deets. Barber shop. Got a title and everything. Why, you want a few?”

It’s that gap between brushing him off as ‘one of their own’ and realizing he’s a notch or two down from that. He’s seen it probably a thousand times since his fuck-up. The first dismissive look they all share, like the three stooges if they’d been trust fund babies, shifts at that. Just a little. Red to green, in a blink, and turns nasty.

“Yeah? Bums got LLCs now?” Douchehawk snorts. “What about you? You look like an alcoholic.”

Darryl is inching away, attempting to look distracted despite having little more on him than his cards and his hat. Eddie snorts back.

“The hell does an alcoholic look like?” They’re still standing way too close. He edges between them and his friend again, in case they get any bright ideas. “Huh? Like you and your pals aren’t swigging martinis on your next ‘entrepreneurial venture’ to turn a neighborhood upside down. What’s the next big thing, dudes? Gluten-free water for twenty bucks a bottle?”

The generic-looking one mutters something and nudges their peer. Fuck, beer and crying and too much _walking_ hasn’t done his head any favors. It jumbles his brain and kicks it over like a tin trash can, completely killing his sense of flow. Before he can even connect the dots Darryl’s being shoved back by Glasses, dangerously close to the street. His cards go spilling all over the ground.

“ _Hey!_ ”

Eddie steps between them, though it’s hard to do so without stomping on all his hard work. Darryl drops to the ground, cursing under his breath and scooping them up. The sorry sons-of-bitches stand in a shitty gaggle _just_ outside the mess and chortle to themselves. They’re not punching him or pulling out any weapons. Just trying to rile him up like they never left second grade. The seamless foot traffic of the day barely even hitches, the evening crowd marching to the end of the sidewalk and around the front of the old theater like nothing’s happening at all. Californian apathy, right on time.

“Fuck’s your deal?” Eddie snaps, right in Douchehawk’s face, because Darryl’s in an even worse position to stand up for himself. “Come on. Back off. Let him do his thing, go to your yoga class or whatever it is you do on Thursdays-“

Then he’s pushed. At least, the guy _tries_. Eddie squares his shoulders, digs his heels into the ground and doesn’t budge. He may not be tall, but he’s _built_ , and this sorry hipster clearly realizes that with a look that drains of confidence faster than a squeezed sponge.

“Look at you, tough shit.” The man manages, and now might just be a good time for him to call it quits. Eddie wasn’t the punching type, but he’s already taken plenty of hits today alone.

”You could take him, Chris. Come on.”

”Sure I could.”

It starts to blur a little from there, and it’s not just his trash can brain to blame. Darryl reaches an arm out for him to pull him over, away from both the Jackasses Of The Day _and_ the cars still eating away at what remains of the afternoon rush. There’s a loud curse, then a slur he hasn’t heard since he was living with Mary. Macho insecurity takes over and Douchehawk tries another shove, again at Darryl picking up one last card off the cement. The anger flares up and makes Eddie clench his hands so hard they go weak. If he socks this motherfucker in the jaw his little stint at social services will look like a picnic. Another slur, one that makes his body move of its own volition, right up to the guy’s face, and he’s swinging back, because if he doesn’t-

” _Charles-_ ”

Fate’s a funny thing. He’s always liked the idea of a heavenly plan, even _if_ the last few years have kicked and slapped his faith about like a Styrofoam cup. Miles might talk about alternate timelines or time travel or funny things like that. There was always an unknown element about it all, there’d always be, he supposed, but it didn’t stop people from wondering, anyway. Right now seems like a good time to think about it all. Maybe if he’d taken Darryl’s advice he wouldn’t have balled up a fist and turned a bad situation worse. Maybe if he hadn’t literally thrown himself into the fire, completely worn himself out _and_ killed off his alien bodyguard he would have seen the car coming.

”Oh, _fuck_ , no, Charles-“

For the second time today he’s on the ground, which would make it the third time in a week. Unlike the first time and second time, though, he can’t get back up. It’s…wet. Kind of like before. Scratchy. Bumpy. He thinks he hears someone yelling at him. He can’t tell. He can’t tell because he can’t hear all that clearly and he can’t move. The second he tries everything hurts. An attempt to breathe punishes him immediately, what feels like all the bones in his torso _crumpling_ inside him. Blinking makes fuzz and pops crackle behind his eyelids. Eddie tries to shift onto his elbows…then _gasps_ when his entire body seizes and swims the world into red.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck _fuck_. His nails catch on the bumpy, greasy ground. He tries to take in just one gulp of air, just one, and he _can’t_.

“ _Eddie_.”

Delusions have taken center stage in his life more times than he can count. Drunk hallucinations, highs that went on for a few hours too long, straight-up madness. This must be the intro to the montage of his life’s movie. Flashing before his eyes like a low-budget TV drama, the alien’s baritone his narrator and excruciating pain the climax. His one saving grace is not having Carl laughing at his last moments before he’s plunked into the fiery depths. Eddie is sure he’s screaming, he can _feel_ it vibrating his throat, but the world is muffled agony and _he wants to die_.

‘ _Make it stop, please, please, I can’t, God, it hurts, it hurts so fucking bad, please make it stop, please_ -‘

The Hill’s growing darker, he can’t tell if it’s because his eyes are shut or open-

“ _III will make the pain go away, Eddie. Breathe_.”

‘ _I can’t, I can’t, it hurts_ -‘

“ _III said **breathe**_.”

Then it _does_ go dark. A dark, dark, dark, dark…blue.

The deep end of a cove, the morning pushing back the night, it fills him up from head-to-toe…soft and soothing. The haze of agony ebbs and something _mercifully_ cool replaces it, a chill better than any painkillers. He never wants color to leave him again. For a blissful, dizzying moment he can _think_. Eddie sucks in a cheap, tentative breath, one that simply aches, then a deeper one that swells his chest. Before his brain can even stitch together a vague ‘ _Thank God_ ’ the pain ricochets back, not quite as raw but still too goddamn _much_ , and he gasps and twists into himself, gritting his jaw so hard his molars scrape. No, _no_ , he can’t, he _can’t_ do this, it _hurts-_

” _Breathe._ ”

Another wash of blue. Another spike of white-hot _agony_ that’s not kind enough to just fucking kill him. Eddie watches maroon smoke squeeze through his teeth. Turning everything violet, turning into _things_ that aren’t where he should be, with tires and road and shiny shoes he can’t afford. Waving, grasping arms when he blinks…a billion and a half hands reaching out to a sun, bright, cloying, choking. Where is he? How did this happen? He’s shifting in little jerks and fits on the gravel, for some reason, but he’s not sure how or _why_ when he just wants to huddle and _can’t_ , can’t huddle because he’s _broken_ -

“ _III won’t let yyyou die_.” It’s holding him from the inside. Cupping him to keep him from spilling. “ _Feed off mmme_.”

He whimpers like a newborn as his bones slide through swollen muscle, pops into tendons with a sound that echoes so hard it rattles his skull. His body is a puzzle set, twisting and shuffling back into the bigger picture one sharp _crack_ and wet _crunch_ at a time. Raised voices start to filter through the ringing in his ears. A herd of people chattering above him, waving arms and…something wet and smoky reaching his nose and…rubber. There’s an ambulance wailing somewhere in the distance, loud, noisy, terrible. He lets out a little sob. A sob of _relief_.

” _Get up._ ”

Right. Up. He can get up. Eddie sucks a breath in through his nose – a clear, deep, pain-free _breath_ \-- and floats off the ground into a wobbly sitting position. There’s a cage of car doors in a sloppy semi-circle. Lots of shoes. He blinks away the water and stares up at all the commotion, no longer in monochrome. He’s thinking of a bad In Living Color joke when one of the voices registers through the fog in his head.

“Charles, oh my god, you’re _alive_ , don’t move, just you wait there, right there-“ Oh, no. The man’s cap fell off at some point. He loves that thing. Darryl rubs at his scraggly hairline with both hands. “Hell are you _doing?_ You…you got hit head-on. I saw you go flying, like that-“ He makes an arc with his hand. “How are you still _awake?_ Don’t move, don’t move, stay there-“

”’m okay.” Eddie manages, letting out a shuddery laugh and patting at his shoulder with a clumsy hand that feels like it belongs to someone else. “Still truckin’.”

”Don’t _joke_ like that, man.” The guy moans. “You’re fucking nuts.”

True.

”They pushed you, just shoved you, trying to get you out of the way to me…” Darryl is heaving, so stressed he can hardly string the words together. “They were telling bystanders it was _me_ who did it…”

Eddie narrows his eyes. Time to go be batshit insane somewhere else. It’s a nice feeling, getting up on his own two feet and reassuring the crowd that’s gathered he’s still in one piece. One of them’s the driver, he thinks, because they’re squalling the loudest and standing in front of the mom vehicle that slammed into him, but he’s got more important things to attend to. Eddie slips away in the crowd – keeping up a limp so people aren’t too suspicious -- though he _does_ pull out his (still functioning) phone to give Darryl a text, just so he knows he hasn’t gotten hit by another car behind his back.

It takes some walking, what with how crowded this part of town was, but he finds himself a nice little nook behind a Mom and Pop place. Just like the nook he found when he was talking to Mary on what was supposed to be his last day.

”Where the _hell_ did you go?”

Eddie rubs at his watering eyes. He’s not going to cry for a second time today. At least, not _yet_. Yeah, he was definitely going to cry later, now that he’s not coasting on alcohol or shock anymore. A rush of colors fill his mind like water in a cup. Fill _him_ up, and, fuck, he missed _that_.

” _III never left_.” The alien murmurs in blues and reds, almost touching to purple. ” _III was in stasis. The last form a symbiote can take before the long dark_.”

Oh. So it…must have seen and heard most of the past few days, then.

” _III did. Yyyour roaming and clinging and talking. …Yyyour drinking._ ”

He winces. Well, fuck. That’s a little embarrassing. Wait…it’s reading his thoughts?

” _Clearly._ ” The red dominates now, just a little amused. “ _Not all yyyour acid prose and instinct blinks…but more than before_.”

It goes both ways. He can see some of its own memories now, though interpreting it as anything that makes _sense_ is another matter entirely. Black pockets that squish and stretch…sharp colors he still can’t put to words and remembers seeing at The Laura House. The sensation of being pulled and tugging back. Slowly, carefully falling…not quite floating, still moving. Eddie sniffs and rubs at his face some more, nose burning with the effort to hold it in.

“Oh, hell, slimy, I thought…I thought I _lost_ you.”

” _Yyyou certainly tried yyyour best. First thing III see when III regain mmmy strength and yyyou’re right back to getting yyyourself killed_.” Its laugh softens the sting, rumbling a warm and bubbly pink in his chest like a pop of champagne. “ _Yyyou’re a consistent host_.”

”Right. Ha.” He can smell the insult from here, more relieving than he ever thought it could be. “If nothing else, huh?”

It’s not an aggravated stripe of piss yellow or bloom of green sneer that follows. His vision swims a little, like he’s just on the edge of being drunk, and a growing glow lifts up from where he’s staring down at his feet. It’s amber. Copper. So rich it churns. He takes a moment to look over his shoulder out of the crook at the slice of light between the building shadows. Back to those chaotic colors, though so much softer it’s like looking through a gauzy curtain.

” _Plenty else_.”

The hair on his chest stands on end as it pulls out of his back. Stretches into the space where the light doesn’t reach, as graceful as a ribbon. It doesn’t quite curl around in the air like it did back at the motel, though. The symbiote drifts down to the ground…then slides back up, into that stretched and surreal not-quite-human shape. He gets the distinct impression it’s testing out its strength. Like standing up after sitting for too long. His skin itches from the loss. Eddie fidgets at his coat sleeves (like Miles, he notes with a burning wave of fondness) and acutely resists the urge to pick at his arms. White fangs split through into its characteristic Cheshire cat grin.

“ _…Yyyou showed teeth, Eddie_.”

”Right, yeah. Teeth.” He chuckles…then stops. Wait, that…wasn’t a compliment, was it?

” _Nothing…to everything._ ” It looks over its not-shoulder at the people passing by. “ _III’d wanted both and gotten both._ ”

Before he has time to consider what it’s talking about the alien’s swiveling back around to fix him with a glowing stare he can’t look away from.

” _Eddie_.” He…really likes the way it’s saying his name now. Not this cutting growl or hoarse sneer, but…something just a little softer. “ _Yyyou are not the host III presumed. Yyyou have exhibited many of the traits determined significant_.”

Ha. He’s finally getting that much-needed performance review. Eddie fights back a smile. It tilts its head and, for some reason, he feels his own head tilting with it.

” _Yyyou kept mmme, as III kept yyyou._ ” A few steps forward, though it doesn’t walk so much as glide. “ _Mmmy body seeped, and yyyou cupped it regardless. Tell mmme why._ ”

”Uh. Well, you took care of me.” Eddie stops fighting the urge and rubs at his forearms. “Quid pro quo.”

It doesn’t immediately answer. His comment was something to chew on, apparently, because its silence itself seems to gnaw at that handful of syllables.

” _…Swift to act. Protective of kin. To the crest yyyou go, despite little to know_.” It sounds like it’s reciting something. “ _The stars are stitched together by forces we cannot touch. When it is trapped within the cage of a personal biology it must be nurtured. III nearly made a vivid mistake, Eddie. A galactic error. III had deemed yyyou an insufficient host, little more than a turn on the journey, when yyyou have been complimentary. The long dark has called to yyyou and yyyou have been captured not as debris, but as a body, caught in yyyour own pull and damning gravity._ ”

Eddie scrubs his nose on his sleeve and slowly grins.

”…You like me.”

” _A strong shade, that word_.”

”You _like_ me.”

Those orca spot eyes curve into an enigmatic little stare. That’s all right. He’s not going to push too hard, because it’s here, it’s _back_ , telling him he’s better than expected and that makes him smile so hard his face hurts. Completely uncaring of the hustle and bustle just a few feet past the archway it drifts closer, tilting its head again and looking at him for the first time all over again.

” _III have something far better than yyyour precious wash of ombre silk_.” The red tongue flickers between its teeth. ” _III **want** yyyou_.”

It’s not a scent he can pick up in the air like a waft of smoke or a roundtable of cans being cracked open in sync. It tingles _inside_ him. Shivers the nerves, more an instinct or a tension to react, to _move_. Eddie’s nails stop scratching and dig into his skin. He doesn’t lean back this time. He leans _into_ its air and sucks it in, trying to get more of… _that_. The symbiote sways like a snake, drifting in close. Craving that exact same thing.

” _Do yyyou want mmme, Eddie?_ ”

It’s a question and an answer. It’s also something else, because it can pick apart his mind more clearly now and it’s still asking.

”…Y-Yeah.” Eddie’s hands don’t leave his forearms, up and down and up and down, syllables shaking with the truth. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I do.”

Something’s close. So _close_. He doesn’t know what it is, but they’re almost there, and, Hell, he wants it. Needs it.

”We made a deal, right?” For once he can just take what he wants… “As long as you’re here…we can still…?”

The softness ripples with something sharp. Eddie looks up as it hovers above him and nearly drowns him in more than one kind of shadow.

” _III am not to be **taken** , Eddie_.”

That zipper mouth of shiny fangs is close enough to snap his nose right off. Somehow this feels like the part where he should grab it and crush their mouths together in a sloppy reunion kiss. He doesn’t know where the hell he’d start with that, much less any of this, but, God, they’re close, and he’s so close to feeling _good_ again and just…he needs them to dip over that incline and take it already. Eddie wets his lips unconsciously, pushing down the chapped skin and grounding himself in the sting. He reaches forward trembling fingers to streak through the black. Congealing, slippery, not warm as he knows it. It ripples up his arms, looping around in loose ropes to hold him still, and he freezes.

”’Course not.” Eddie huffs, smiling crookedly. “ _We_ are, right?”

The tongue slides out to flick through the air. Tasting something. There. _There_ it is…

” _That was the deal, yes. What we could become, though…the things we can do…_ ” It murmurs, soft again with thought. ” _Could it be…_ ” It’s picking up expressions. The white spots stretch wide, smooth head bumping with something like brows. “ _A blur all mmmy own…_ ”

Eddie listens to it murmur and mutter, chewing on his lip and worrying at a strip of dry skin to redirect the burgeoning fit. Maybe. Maybe? Maybe. He’s been high and he’s been drunk, but there’s some stuff a person just doesn’t see without something supernatural _or_ super natural to blame. He can make out his flushed, exhausted, scruffy face in the mirror sheen of its eyes. Whatever it’s trying to figure out is apparently coming to its conclusion, because _now_ it smiles. Not some subconscious alien jaw twisting up, like an alligator skull, but a pleased grin that makes its eyes vanish and turns it into ebony.

” _We will try yyyour match made in yyyour heaven, then. The silver to the black. Yyyour everything…_ ”

It opens his mouth and happily devours him.

” _…to mmmy everything_.”

Eddie could float into the _sky_. It’s the Laura House again. It’s so much. It’s everything, his everything, just everything. His back touches the wall, which is covered in technicolor static, and the happy huff he puffs into the air fills the entire alley to blend into the amber blur beyond. Just like last time it hurts, though that doesn’t even seem like the right way to put it, because it’s less a broken bone and more a knot unraveling and smoothing out from head to toe. He feels sensations that shouldn’t make sense. The tips of his hair stretching, his blood popping, his pores dripping secondaries. He hopes it feels just as good for his alien as it does for him.

” _Oh, it does._ ” The symbiote chuckles, and shudders into his spine.

Eddie hits his back against the wall and rubs at his hairline, studying the almost literal afterglow. There’s leftover gravel in his beard, he finds out with a frown that doesn’t stick, and he’s worked up another sweat, but…whatever. That’s fine. It’s good. It’s great. Everything’s _okay_.

“Okay. Wanna try this again?” A pink question. “Like this. I’m Eddie Brock. I’m sad a lot and could really go for a sandwich right now.”

“ _Hhhhhhello. III have no name and III must scream_.”

”Pleasure to meet you again, slimy.”

” _The pleasure is all mine_.”

This isn’t handshake territory. He can’t really hug it right now, either, not when there are still people nearby who probably don’t want to see a talking tapeworm pop out of him like a chestburster, so he…hugs himself. _Real_ tight. Then a pat on the back, to complete the package. Its rumbling chuckle tickles pleasantly. Eddie lets out a wet laugh and rubs his nose again. It’s all bubbling together, their colors. Relief, exhaustion, good cheer. One rises to the top to sit on all the rest. Red as blood. It nestles further inside his chest, wriggling a little like someone trying out a more comfortable mattress, and a happy shiver tumbles down his back.

”Excuse me?”

Eddie looks over his shoulder at the woman peering out the back door to the shop. Not dressed in working clothes. Might be a manager.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you, but can you take that somewhere else?”

He grins.

”Take _what_ somewhere else?”

She scoffs and waves a hand toward the alley…then drops it and looks down the dead end, then toward the entrance, brow pinching. Eddie stuffs his hands in his pockets and skips off. He hasn’t skipped since he was five. It’s only when thinking of how he’s going to reunite with Darryl that the red bubbles over and makes him stop dead in his tracks.

”Those bastards.” Eddie breathes, suddenly frozen with it. “Those… _bastards._ ”

His voice _shivers_. A couple passing y shuffle away from him, but he’s beyond caring. Heaven help him, he’s never felt so angry in all his days. So hot it runs cold. He’s not going to pin this on the alien. Not this time. No, this rage is all his. … _Mostly_ his. It got hit by that car, too.

”They’re gonna get away with it scot-free.” Eddie hisses. “Scot-fucking-free. Why wouldn’t they? They can do whatever they want. Hurt _whoever_ they want, take _whatever_ they want. Nobody to stop them but the fucking coke addiction and a short attention span. Darryl might not even get out of this unscathed. I got hit, I took the swing, but they know _his_ face. Were _blaming_ him. These types are petty, slimy. Nothing to stop them from figuring out his haunts and finishing the job. Got that pride, see. Too much goddamn pride from goddamn _nowhere_.”

The symbiote hums an orange stripe.

” _What’s our plan, Eddie?_ ”

He lifts his head and looks around at the streaks of colors winding through people, buildings and cars. They both know this answer.

“We’re going to _find_ those sons of bitches.”

The orange darkens into a rich, gleeful bloom of red that turns the amber into copper.

* ~ - ~ *

The trail leads them to Pacific Heights. Because of _course_ it does.

He was expecting a _much_ longer romp to Silicon Valley or something, not like it would take quite so long now that he was back together ( _they_ were back together). The same fancy little buildings that mark the difference between his half dozen other regular blocks, even the shitshow with Diane, none of it kicks up bad vibes that turns his ass around. Rage has been burning black as a bruise and narrowing his entire world down to fifteen feet ahead of him. Right now, gray road so pristine it’s probably never seen a pothole. They were going to kill Darryl. They were going to _kill_ him. Push him into the street or frame an innocent man just trying to get goddamn work…and they had the audacity to turn tail and run back to their little safe haven in the _hills?_

A gust passes through, making him acutely aware of how much he’s been sweating walking block after block non-stop. He shudders and hunches his shoulders, though it doesn’t last long. That same wash of black trails over him and transforms his hand-me-downs. Eddie blinks down at the process. It’s always cool to see, even after a dozen times. The jacket he’s wearing is now thick leather, not _quite_ bulky. It doesn’t stop there, though. A smooth, warm ripple travels down from what feels like the tips of his hair to the tips of his toes. A little built-in air-conditioning.

“…Oh, you’re a sweetheart.” Eddie sighs, curling fingers into the collar and bringing it up over his chin. “Mm.”

“ _Keep going_.” It murmurs, amber rumble settling in his sternum like rum. “ _…Ttthey are close_.”

Yeah. They are. White shadows have been leading from Lower Nob Hill through the streets in one long streamer, ebbing a little with the breeze and always holding firm. Smelling with his eyes down a trail of synesthesia. His alien swells in his chest in a hot, pleased bubble.

“ _Yyyour body may be weak, Eddie, but yyyour conviction cuts. No such texture exists in these kin. Cowardly little gnats_.” Fuck, its voice could hit a creepy timber. “ _Challenging one of yyyours with nothing further than petty green._ ”

“Yeah. Right?” Green. Bitterness? Jealousy? Some of those things, for sure. “You said you create heroes. So…do you eat the opposite of that or something?”

“ _Why wouldn’t we? Ttthey all crunch the same_.” It squeezes his lungs, sucking in the colors, and Eddie takes in a deep, deep breath with it. “ _These leeches leak white, washed clean of proper complexity. Barely suited to more than tomorrow’s compost_.” Eating people is very high on his list of Hell Nos, next to buying doilies and drinking La Croix, but they certainly wouldn’t be missed. ” _Filth roaming this planet’s hide. So much for the higher cause to attend to._ ” It laughs, and Eddie feels an echo stretch his mouth and twitch his chest. “ _What a crash!_ ”

They pass through Lafayette Park. They go up the iconic Lyon Street Steps. They pass yet more optical illusions. Silhouettes of people if they were carved out of oily paper. A pair kiss at the top of the stairs, a lone one teeters dangerously on the top of a building.

” _Shaped like yyyou. Ttthey must come from yyyou_.”

Eddie grunts. The simplest answer was usually the right one. Must say something about how many trips he’s been on that what catches his eye isn’t the 415’s local psychedelic population, but a cute little condo. Probably a two-bed. It’s sandwiched between two larger buildings, framed by carefully trimmed bushes. He camps his broke self across the street and stares. The alien appreciates the color – a rather pretty lavender – but is otherwise impatient, jittering right beneath his skin and making his arm hair ripple.

” _Yyyou want one of these._ ”

”Well…we did.” He tugs at his beard. “Annie and I.”

” _A home is within_.”

”See, well-meaning, but things have value. Meaning. It’s…history for us.”

” _Then we take_.”

”Seriously, goopy, you _gotta_ tone it down with that take-take-take shit. World isn’t just a free market where you pluck up whatever you like.”

” _Yyyou crave, III provide. Yyyou are mmmy host, so III do my part and get yyyou these meaningful things that fill yyyou with such tender, tender violet_.” It purrs approval when he moves down the street again. “ _Since when has playing by all yyyour little rules and do’s and don’ts worked out for yyyou?_ ”

Eddie frowns at that…but, for once, isn’t really sure what to say. Evening is getting dark enough the street lamps are starting to turn on. The place isn’t super active, probably enough there’s an actual curfew here. He’s spared the trouble of a response when the white trail grows thicker, so abruptly it makes him squint, and leads him up the street’s incline to two men standing next to a parked sports car. Glasses and Sir Generic. It’s such a lucid situation, such a _wretched_ one, that he doesn’t bother to announce his arrival. Just stands there until they pick up the outlier and look up.

“Holy shit, dude…” A pause and a squint by the doughy motherfucker. “It’s the guy that got _hit_.”

“What? No, that’s not him.”

“No, no, that’s him, look at his shirt, that’s _him_ -“

One’s gone. The other two are huddled over their phones. At least, they _were_ , until they spotted him and turned into a pair of mortified lawn ornaments. The rage is bleeding. Bleeding over him, out his pores, into the evening air in swaths of maroon that melt the sunny little houses into warping nightmare silhouettes. Both of them are muttering to each other, apprehensive and confused and far too fucking _alive_.

” _The third has scurried off to the west_.” The veins in his hands swell. “ _The one that pushed us._ ”

“The…hell do you want, man?” Glasses hedges, raising one hand, then dropping. “Shouldn’t you, um…be in a hospital?”

” _Hospital._ ” It repeats, with a laugh. “ _We will find the last, Eddie_.”

Absolutely. _That_ jackass’s deadline was looming, but for now the two before him will more than pick up the slack.

“The hell is wrong with you?” They start to mutter again. He bulls over them, incensed to bursting on less than three hours ago of pain and shock. “…Who else have you hurt in the past t-minus twenty-four hours? Who else were you _going_ to hurt? Where’s your friend, Chris, huh?”

They gape. Too dumbfounded to respond. Yeah, they never like being called by name, did they? _Especially_ not by degenerates who are forced to live and _breathe_ convenient anonymity.

“I heard what you said. I heard everything! Your little plan to pin the blame on Darryl and look like the goddamn heroes, huh? Too bad I didn’t _die!_ ” Eddie’s voice rising from a yell to a _roar_ , doubly loud in this neighborhood’s sleepy blanket. “I’m so god _damn_ tired of people like you, you’re like _weeds_. Sucking all the life out of everywhere you go. Tearing down good things. Spitting nothing but venom in your precious… _soundbites_ and columns about good people in bad situations! You tear up homes, you tear up people’s hope, you tear up _people’s lives!_ ”

Glasses is holding up his hands again. Just like Darryl did, when all he wanted was a bit of peace. The other guy is pulling out his cell. Eddie flexes his fingers in and out of a potential grip. Fuck slugging them in the face. Their tendons are going to pop beneath his _nails_. He’ll spill so much blood _everyone_ in this part of town was going to see _red_. The symbiote snarls its agreement somewhere inside, no longer words or colors but a pump in his veins that directs, a knee-jerk response with no source, instantaneous and righteous.

“Maybe we’ll shove you into the path of an oncoming car, yeah?” Eddie takes one step forward. “Drop you right in the middle of a busy freeway and count all the times your torn limbs bounce over the pavement? That’d make the headlines!”

They don’t speak, blanching so white they could be made out of copy paper. What could they even say, really? What could ttthey even _say?_

“ _We’ll tear out yyyour fucking throat and stuff yyyour neck full with yyyour chump change. We’ll leave yyyou scrabbling in the dirt and trying to push yyyour intestines back inside_.”

They’re not just paling at the sight of a consequence. They’re growing smaller. Shrinking down, down, _down_ into the hideous, scuttling little _rats_ they are. The carefully retained uniformity of Pacific Heights shrinks, too. Shades grow vivid, lighting up bright, glowing, ebbing. The chemicals wafting off their body lifts neon into the air, he can taste it on the very tip of their tongue. They lap out to touch, feel the old wine of an old body soak in, and the fragrance of many years past sinks into their system. The bond is enough, but this planet’s sentiment high is a garnish that won’t be refused. _Delicious_.

It’s a vivid world.

A beautiful one.

Just like that…they’re _pristine._ Ah, to go from nothingness to _life_ in the span of time between lightning and soil, a hot star and its nuclear pop. A trillion and ten souls hearken to them, and _only_ , and today is the day they answer! Answer as only a now-living thing can. They’ll run and swim and climb, explore and burrow, laugh and cry. Suck up the color that sweats off the planet’s face, once this task is finished, and find the prettiest curve of the orb to relish in. Their name pumps through their veins. Refracts the light and figures itself out. It will shape itself in the sound-tongue of apes, soon. Not now. First…they eat.

They crane their head well above the vehicles and ornate plant rows, up to the stars above, considering the echo inside them. Pinging where the light can’t reach.

Eddie and it…both are overwhelmed by the chromatic union. Nothing could be finer. They can lose themselves in the sluice, intertwine and learn through it. For now _their_ will is primary. With a stretch of their neck and shift of their jaws they settle into the physicality proper. Hulking shoulders and leggy limbs with grasping digits, an oily hide that refracts a thousand hues and a hundred teeth clacking. A test of their clawed hands through the packed cement parts it like sand, just as it _should_ , and their cackle of delight rings with rose. The air all but _reeks_ with potential, though one scent reaches out of the chromatic cluster to cradle their face: the silky, sweet stench of fear, slippery to the ears and salty to the touch.

“ _Go on_.”

They flick their long, red tongue out.

“ _Try and kill us now_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie is enjoying an office party at The Aeronaut and soaking in praise from his co-workers. He’s released an impressive article criticizing O’Sullivan and already looking forward to his next op-ed when Anne shows up unexpectedly. It’s an odd flashback, all the more so for her attempt to kill him in broad daylight…
> 
> …Except it’s _not_ a flashback. It’s a dream, one he’s woken up from by a pair of officers, on a sidewalk without his clothes or his wallet. With the motel being repaired he has no choice but to take to the streets early. Couch-surfing with Julie and Iris, traversing the city on minor errands and struggling to plan out the next few weeks, he experiences several odd side-effects over the days that alert him to a major change: the alien’s _gone_.
> 
> He eventually has to head to ‘the pack’: a large homeless camp he bunked with a few years back. He meets up with the older man and his dog he ran into on his way to the Laura House a while back, as well as reunites with Darryl. Back to drinking and barely making it through phonecalls with Miles and Mary without holding back tears, the man knows he’s better off staying busy and decides to help his friend promote his barber shop. While handing out business cards around Lower Nob Hill Darryl is accosted and harassed by three middle-class men. Eddie intervenes and ends up pushed into the path of an oncoming car.
> 
> The symbiote reveals itself moments before Eddie is sure he’ll die. It states it hadn’t died _or_ abandoned him, but occupied a form of emergency stasis after its injury. After it stitches him back together it also confesses Eddie exceeded its expectations in more ways than one. They decide to start over from square one with the symbiosis, realizing this temporary partnership could be something more. Yes, something about the event seems to unlock something inside them both… manifesting as something else _entirely_ when they decide to mete out a little justice.
> 
> \--
> 
> This chapter’s _definitely_ a while in the making. I’d yap more in the notes section, but I’m just glad to unleash the beast. …Also, I’m pretty sure I’m coming down with another cold and all my mind can think about is the next few days of fever and soup. 


	10. You Won't Believe What Happens Next!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for anti-black slurs, antiziganist slurs, classist commentary, explicit gore and body horror.
> 
> Chapter Song -- "Psychadelic Addict" by Anuka (prod. by PHAM)

“ _Come on, just have a heart. Remember, she baked you a cake for your birthday. An **entire** three-layer cake, all by herself?_ ”

“Yeah. I know. It was German chocolate. She’ll _still_ play it for a week, then turn it into a paperweight. Look, you wanna bet on it? I’ll bet you _double_ the amount it’ll cost me.” Wait, ugh, that wasn’t smart. Now he’s thrown a match on the kindling. “No, no, no. Stop. I was kidding. It’s not about the money, it’s about the _principle_. She needs to start spending her time more wisely. Jobs don’t grow on trees and she’s going to wish she made something out of her hobbies, _now_. While it _counts_. Why not encourage that? Why am I the bad guy here?”

“ _Would you please just give it a rest. She’s sixteen, Chris. She’s only got two more years to be a stupid, selfish kid before she’s off to college. You forget being a stupid, selfish kid already? Because I sure as heck haven’t. I’ll go dig up the grave of that poor pontoon boat if you want me to_.”

Oh, boy. He definitely didn’t see _that_ one coming. Been nearly fifteen years since that happened and she keeps acting like it was yesterday. Chris digs in his pocket for a cigarette, then curses under his breath. Right, he left the pack in the car.

” _What did you just call me?_ ”

”No, no, that wasn’t aimed at you, Mom.”

” _It better not have been._ ”

He’s _also_ sure he hasn’t cursed at her in over fifteen years, but he’s got enough to argue about already. Chris shoves on his sneakers and jogs out to the driveway. She’s already nattering on about some article she read on the health benefits of gaming twice a week or whatever. Christ. If he never has this debate or debate-proxy again it’d be too soon. Videogames passed the time, sure, but so did _literally_ anything else. Swimming. Soccer. Learning how to grow backyard pot.

” _Reduces anxiety, according to this one site. Is really good for blood pressure, says this survey. You know her anxiety’s been getting worse. It’s practically medication._ ”

Uh-huh. Whatever. Jessica wanted it, so Jessica was going to get it, with a dozen Mario Parties or whatever was hype right now. His pack’s got three left – thank _God_ \-- and he’s already in a better mood well before he’s taken a puff. Conversations about games always made his teeth itchy. When he wasn’t going for round seven with his mother there was an eighty-five percent chance of hearing some quip about not fitting that mainstream tech-savvy stereotype. A guy who worked full-time tech support that didn’t play some MMO, oh, what a _big deal!_ People who said shit like that were the kinds of morons who couldn’t build a computer without help. Sometimes he really hated this degree, but the feeling never lasted. Meant he could spoil his sister rotten with whatever obsession she latched onto next.

” _Maybe you could invite Tiffany and we could all play together? Or not, it’s just an idea, save the lip._ ”

”I didn’t even say anything.”

” _I’m your mother. I can tell._ ”

Chris opens his mouth for a rebuke, then lets it hang uselessly. …Whatever. _Whatever_. Sweet sixteens only came by once and he _really_ doesn’t feel like being the designated scrooge at her party. Besides. After what she’s had to deal with at that stupid fucking school it’ll be worth seeing a smile on her face. Maybe he could convince Mom to transfer her later. Put those debate classes to good use and turn that ‘she’ll only be a kid for two more years’ argument against her, because slut-shaming _isn’t_ what Jess needed to be ushered into adulthood with. With a slump of his shoulders he gives in to his current defeat. Here’s to losing, what, his five hundredth round?

“ _You know it’ll make her happy_.” She’s already starting up again. He takes another puff and taps the end into the ashtray.

“Oh, I know. That’s why I’m doing it.”

” _Think about it, even just a week of getting her mind off those mid-terms-_ ” Yeah, there it is. His luck finally decides it wants to get out of bed, because she screeches to a halt. “ _…Oh. Oh, good! See, come on. That wasn’t so hard. Just get her more games if she loses interest. She’ll gobble it up again, I’m sure. What’s that one game everyone’s playing? Watchover or something?_ ”

”I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t _play_.”

A cool breeze kicks up as he opens the window to let in some air. Chris leans an elbow on the sill and takes a moment to appreciate the flowers blooming down the walkway, even prettier under the (now dimming) summer sky. The good, ol’ Devil’s Backbone. Clean and sleepy and beautiful and walkable and boring as _fuck_. Another day sooner to getting a place closer to the Wharf, away from all this old-fashioned hype. It’s not the worst, but he also wasn’t settling down any time soon and he likes to _do_ shit. Sometimes spotting someone in the neighborhood within his age bracket was like spotting a unicorn.

” _Back in the day the biggest deal was solitaire. I swear it was as common an addiction as caffeine. They have new versions for your phone, but, I don’t know. It’s just not the same._ ”

She’s going off again, so he makes sure to add some _mm-hmm_ s and _uh-huh_ s as he spruces up, starting with taking out the trash box to the outside bin. Thing is, Tiffany likes Pacific Heights. A lot. She’s _always_ finding excuses to stay here instead of her place (without outright moving in, of course). Chris chuckles. She’s a leech, but she’s _his_ leech. Practically took the spare room for herself at this point. She’s never been one for dropping bad habits, though, and is probably going to swing over an hour earlier than she said. Without further ado he begins checking off a list in his head to get the place spotless an hour early. …Girl _really_ needs to stop doing that.

Chris opens up another window, then scoops up beer cans and shovels them into another bag. Doesn’t matter how roomy this place is: unless the coffee table is clear the entire apartment looks broke. He crumples up an old newspaper in one fist, then startles at the mug rings sullying the black-and-white marble. _Fucking Mike!_ It takes three paper towels and more spritzing than he’d like to get that glossy sheen back. Chris flings the soggy wads in with the rest and stomps outside again. If the guy weren’t such a slob it wouldn’t be _nearly_ as much of a heartache setting him up with a girl when they went bar-hopping. He considers forgetting to tell him where Jessica’s party is being held. Just to be shitty.

”Champion!” He calls once he returns to the front steps. He’s probably not going to show, not when his whereabouts were a percentage only a gypsy could predict, but it’s worth a shot. “Champion, come here, boy!”

He _mm-hmm_ s and _uh-huh_ s as he waits for the gray tail to pop past the shrubs, beating out the floor mat in the meantime. It takes calling his name nine times _and_ crinkling a bag of treats before he shows up. That dumb furball. Here he is, giving the thing a free ride and he _still_ slinks up the driveway like his evening was so rudely interrupted.

”You’re going to get eaten one of these days.” Chris mutters as Champion nibbles out of his hand. “Eaten or run over, whichever comes first. I’d let you stay inside, if you just shut up about it.”

” _What was that?_ ”

”Mom, did that _sound_ like I was talking to you?”

The mat looks much better now. Chris double-checks the time. His deadline’s approaching. Tiffany’s going to be here right after she clocks off: they’re going to watch the game, eat a healthy dinner and have some _much_ -needed make-up sex. Then he could focus on putting the finishing touches on his personal vacation in just two weeks. Vancouver won’t even know what _hit_ it.

“Sorry, Mom. Tiff will be here in a few and I still have to get ready.” He puts the phone on speaker and cracks out the crook in his shoulder. “Put a pin in that.”

” _I don’t know why you talk to me like I’m your boss. Fix that attitude before you get here, all right?_ ”

”All right. Cool. Love you.”

Champion disappears after one more scratch to his chin, bounding across the grass and slipping between the bushes. Crazy how much energy he has, when he should be geriatric.

On the way to the bathroom Chris checks his fifth text to Mike, with now a fifth big fat _nothing_ from Mike. Dude’s probably _still_ stoned. He wastes minutes in the shower brooding over the silent treatment. Dude’s probably caught up in his feelings over those two guys they ran into yesterday. No less than _fifteen_ fucking texts about how afraid he is of getting in trouble. Didn’t matter how many times he told him the only people that’d get in trouble was a bum and a monkey. Even Daniel was laughing it off! Chris scoffs in the middle of hanging up his towel. Seriously? The fucking gall to stomp around and make a big deal over a ‘barber shop’ that had a ninety-nine percent chance of being a drug hideout, whorehouse or both? The three of them practically did a public service yesterday.

He takes a few extra minutes to dust around that antique tea set his mother got him last month and he _still_ doesn’t know what to do with. It’s pretty, sure, but it doesn’t really _fit_ with the modern chic look he’s been trying to cultivate this year. Chris picks up the jade kettle and turns it around in the light. Eh. Maybe he’ll give it to Mike so he can turn it into a bong. With his list mostly complete he shuffles into the kitchen with a long yawn. Ugh. This place always made him more tired than productive.

”Alexa, play some music.”

It’s relaxing peeling potatoes to Outkast and layering them out one-by-one. Sun’s taking its time setting outside, giving the kitchen a pretty glow he considers taking a selfie in, but he ends up distracted buttering up some yams. Eh. It’s a veggie night. While he’s never been the kind of guy to go overboard with an after-fight apology, sometimes what a girl needed was a homecooked meal and cuddling on the couch. …Granted, he’s got a gift card stashed away, _just_ in case it doesn’t work. Once it’s all in the oven he slides the rest of the hour by watching older episodes of Big Bang Theory (back when it was actually funny), savoring the rich, cheesy smell starting to fill every inch of the apartment.

A buzz against his thigh jerks him upright. Whoops. He didn’t even realize he’d nodded off. Chris takes in a deep breath when he sees her number. All right. Time to start the apology early.

”Hey, Tiff. Before you start, I just wanted to say I’m sor-”

“ _-telling me he hasn’t come home yet. He with you right now?_ ”

Chris looks at his phone with a frown, then puts it to his ear again. Yikes. He probably should’ve waited until she was done talking.

“Uh, what are you even talking about? Who?”

” _Daniel and Mike. They’re missing. They were just on the news…you didn’t see the news? It’s crazy. I didn’t believe it was them at first._ ”

He has to bite back a laugh. Missing? They can’t be missing. Mike is one-hundred percent _guaranteed_ to be either staring at his hands in his bathroom or holed up at some dive joint, drowning his sorrows while attempting and failing to get laid. Daniel’s either putting in an extra hour at work or at the gym. He tells her as much.

” _I swear, if I had a dollar for every time you didn’t listen to me I could buy Hawaii._ ”

There it is. The perfect segue. He pounces.

”Again, like I said, about that night, I was just saying stupid shit off the top of my head…”

” _Chris! I mean it, they’re on the news. Check online, I’m worried!_ ”

His stomach shrinks at her shrill tone. Christ, she’s…really worked up. Tiffany could be kind of ditzy, but she wasn’t a bimbo, and now he’s doubling back to a few minutes earlier trying to figure out what he missed. This isn’t something she’d just misinterpret. He doesn’t _think_ , anyway.

”…Okay. Okay! You don’t have to freak out on me, dude, I was just kidding around.“

” _First, I’m not freaking out. Two, don’t call me dude. You know I hate that. Point two._ ”

”All right, sorry, _Christ_. Look, let me give him a call and I’ll get back to you, okay?”

Tiffany hangs up in the middle of him describing dinner. Wow. Chris leans back with a sigh, taps in his number and waits through the rings. More nothing. If he’s being honest right now this silent treatment _is_ getting a little weird, if only because the guy preferred his pity parties during the day. Mike’s a night owl, through and through, and couldn’t commit to a regular sleep schedule if he were paid to do it. He tries Daniel next and gets the guy’s voicemail. Also…kind of weird. Well. He might as well.

”So, dude, I’m not hearing anything from Mike and I’m not hearing anything from you. Just give me a call or a text soon, all right? Tiff was freaking out on me earlier, said she saw some stuff on the news, and...” His throat catches. That’s right. He…still didn’t check the news yet. “…anyway. Just contact me, all right? Checking in, is all.”

Something about this is straight-up weird. If it were just Mike it’d be no big deal, but _both_ of them? Chris considers leaving a quip at the end, then thinks better of it, hangs up and stares out the window at the street. It’s just now getting dark. His skin hasn’t stopped crawling for a minute. Fuck, Tiff could be paranoid sometimes, but right now he’s making _her_ look chill. Growing up he’d never been the type of kid to see shadows in the dark - - freak out about monsters under the bed, be afraid to get a glass of midnight water -- but something’s playing tricks on his eyes.

Just beyond the trees and parked cars down the hill there’s a tall, dark shape. When he blinks…it vanishes. Chris shudders and shuts the window, then walks across the living room and shuts the other.

”Alexa, stop.”

The moment the music cuts off he wants it back on. A small part of him wonders if the phrase ‘heebie-jeebies’ was designed to sound cute to make the unknown less scary. It’s too many weird thoughts for a Saturday night. Chris goes to check on the potatoes, if only to have something to _do_ while he makes sense of it all. A peek beneath the foil shows a crisp, even crust. Just about done. He rubs his forehead, leans against the island and rolls over what she said. Should he…bother checking the news? Did the newscasters just get their people mixed up? Last he saw Mike and Daniel they were all heading home. Split up just past Sacramento Street to go their separate ways and catch up later.

Same old, same-

Chris _jumps_ at the sound of a long, tense _screech_ right outside the window, like tires tearing up pavement. The fuck? It drags on for a few seconds – no, it sounds like something off an active construction site -- then stops abruptly…followed by a heavy _thud_ that sends a bunch of birds nearby into a frenzy. He watches the oven clock and waits for a full minute, stock still, for another strange noise to filter in. When nothing does he risks a breath:

”What the _hell?_ ”

He creeps up to the kitchen window and peers out. Nothing. Whatever that was sounded like it was _right_ outside his apartment, but there’s…nothing.

…Fuck this. He’s driving to Mike’s.

Chris turns the heat down and grabs his coat. He’s not a fucking coward. He just doesn’t want to be alone right now. After taking another minute to find his keys – stuck in the couch cushions for some stupid reason – he flicks off the lights and storms out, the anger doing a great job of eating up the uncertainty. That is, before his _next_ inconvenience of the night. He slams his palm against the steering wheel and curses. Go figure the fucking thing won’t _start_. That’s what he gets for not taking his car to the shop last week. He hits the dashboard again, cursing every last thing on the planet, then kicks the door back open. He paid good fucking money for this and it doesn’t even turn on when it’s supposed to!

”Stupid fucking day.” He mutters, pulling out another cigarette and reaching for his lighter. A funny smell hits his nose and he waves a hand idly, glancing off to the right. Then the joint slips from his fingers to roll down the driveway.

His fender…is torn clean _off_.

“What…” Chris whispers, walking around the car as quietly as possible, even a wrong step feeling like it can shatter the strange quiet. He reaches trembling fingers toward the frayed metal, staying just outside the jagged edges, then pulls back and just blinks. “How the hell…what the _hell_ …”

It’s not just his fender. The engine. He can see the _engine_ , surrounded by shredded (and sparking) plugs and wires. Torn off like a bite out of a sandwich. He was so pissed off…he didn’t even _notice_. He whips out his phone, starts to dial Mike, then stops halfway. Right, he’s missing, even though…even though that doesn’t make any sense. When he calls Daniel’s cell he gets the voicemail _again_. Fuck, right. Missing. Right. God, this is…this is so surreal. He just saw them yesterday! The snap of a twig or a branch to his left makes him whirl around, but, again, there’s nothing. It’s probably his stupid cat, wondering what the hell is going on.

”Come on, pick up…” He whispers, punching in another number. “Come _on_. Pick up your fucking phone.”

The second his mother answers he goes off immediately. Fuck. Now he knows how Tiffany feels.

” _What?! How the heck can your fender be gone if you weren’t driving?_ ”

“I don’t fucking know! No, no, no, stop. I’m not shitting you right now. Someone _fucked_ with it…” He has to take a photo. They’re all going to see it anyway, but he’s still not sure his eyes are working right. “I’m going to call AAA, later, I just need you to come pick me up-“

” _Okay, okay. Of course. Calm down. I’m on my way. Are you sure you’re safe right now?_ ”

”I’m…I guess? There’s nobody here. I’ve been looking around.” Chris peers into the gaping hole in the front of his car. “This must’ve happened hours ago.”

He takes a step back and snaps a photo, then frowns down at the weird cast shadow blurring the details. His eyes start stinging. He hastily blinks it back. Fuck. _Fuck_. What if something did…happen? They got hit by a car or got kidnapped or something? It’s stupid, but he keeps his mother on the line, if only not to feel so suddenly, weirdly alone in this crazy day. Chris leans against the car’s side-door by the lawn – bizarrely untouched, compared to everything _else_ – and rubs his forehead with one hand.

” _Stay on the line, okay?_ ” His mom’s car is starting in the background. What a beautiful sound. “ _I’ll talk to you as I drive._ ”

”Sure. Sure, whatever, okay. I’m not scared, all right, I’m just _pissed_ -“

“ _Just where are **you** going in such a hurry? Eager to run over some homeless people on your way to the bar?_ ”

His heart sputters to a stop.

“ _Oh, sorry! That was rude of us. You didn’t run anybody over. You just had someone else do your dirty work for you_.” A hoarse cackle. A gust of air follows, tickling over his hair and the back of his neck. “ _Do you even **lift** , bro?_”

Chris slowly turns around…and looks over the hood of his car at a massive shadow with two white eyes and a long red tongue.

” _It’s an honest rhetorical question._ ”

The phone slips from his numb fingers to fall into the grass. Chris bolts up the driveway, shoves open his front door and slams it behind him. He trembles the lock shut and hunches beneath the peephole.

”What the fuck, dude.” He whispers, panting heavily. “What…what…what the _fuck_.”

It’s not a who. It’s a _what_ , because that _thing_ wasn’t a person. It wasn’t a _fucking person_. His apartment is dead silent. He can even hear his shivering. A quick pat over his pockets, then on the floor around him shivers the hair on his arms. …His phone’s in the grass. He dropped his fucking phone in the fucking _grass!_ He doesn’t have a landline, they’re useless, and for once he’s wishing he was as stupidly old-fashioned as his mother. How is he going to call for help?

Chris risks a quick peek through the peephole. Still nothing but the still-sparking hole in his car, the empty driveway and the bushes down the hill. There’s nothing out there. No shadow. No voice. _Nothing_. He slides into a crouch and wipes sweat from his forehead, using both hands to push his bangs back into place. …He didn’t imagine it. It was _right there_. Right by the shrubs, so tall he couldn’t see the sunset. Is he losing his mind? Maybe his mother heard. He hadn’t hung up, his phone had hit something soft, she should-

” _Is that any way to treat your guests?_ ”

Two white eyes blink at him, milky as cataracts and round.

” _All money, no **manners**._ ”

He doesn’t know what to compare it to. He doesn’t know why it’s here, how it can _talk_ , what the fuck it _is_. Chris knows he needs to pull away and fuck off, but his eyes roam up and down the veins that pop along its arms. The grinning crocodile mouth. The hulking torso and broad shoulders, more suited to a linebacker than any monster he can think of. He knows he’s hysterical when he thinks not of mythology or slasher films, but of Daniel’s _football_ days.

…The realization hits like a shot to the arm.

Oh. …Oh, that’s _it_. His two wonderful fucking friends went ‘missing’ and decided to fuck with him. Why the hell didn’t he figure this out sooner? Daniel might’ve graduated summa cum laude, but it was Mike that became famous in his dorm for the weird shit he’d start. Late-night phonecalls, weird hazing rituals. No…no, Daniel’s probably not even involved in this. This is Mike’s fucking prank. Lee’s probably in on it, too, that opportunistic, scrawny fucker. Dude was _still_ sore Tiffany wanted nothing to do with him. The fucking lengths some guys would go after getting snubbed!

“…All right, you fuckers. Get the hell _over_ it!” Chris roars, jumping up to his feet, grabbing the handle and twisting apart the lock. He’s going to fucking kill them. “Are you kidding me with this shit? Out of all the times to pull a stunt like this you pick a _Saturday_.” He wrenches the door open. “This isn’t nearly as funny as you _think_ it is-“

“ _Really?_ ”

A red mouth opens with a sloppy, slimy laugh. Another hot gust of air coats his face, smelling like-

“ _We think it’s **hilarious**!_ ”

His mouth snaps shut. Chris slams the door and hits his back against it, trembling from head-to-toe.

“… _O-Oh_.”

-then his hearing is gone and he’s on the ground.

Shards of glass and splinters rain down on him. It takes him inching onto his forearms and shaking his head until the ringing goes down that something…exploded. Something in his…apartment. There’s smoke. No…no, dust. Plumes of dust thicker than a party’s smokecloud. Chris blinks blearily and stares at another hole in his life, this time where his living room window used to be. …Nothing exploded. The couch is bent and broken from the weight of his car…what’s _left_ of it, turned over on one side, a cloud of dirt lifting into the light to reveal one slowly spinning wheel. A shadow slinks through it.

” _Mind if I come in?_ ”

…This is a nightmare. He’s having a nightmare. He pinches himself, so hard he cuts the skin. The monster doesn’t vanish into the beige of his ceiling or disappear into the dark corners of the room. It stays right where it is, now leaning up onto its hind legs and huffing a coarse laugh through a mouth full of needles.

“ _How does it feel to be the prey?_ ” It doesn’t sound like any person he’s ever spoke to. It’s like the words are coming out of a broken boom mic. “ _Not very enjoyable being reduced to little more than adrenaline and a generic haircut, is it? Hee hee!_ ”

Chris stumbles to his feet and _runs_.

When he trips he’s sure it’s over. He hits the kitchen floor and skids, not stopping until his back hits the island. Fuck, he can’t see _shit_. The evening’s dim and barely fills out the crumbling gap in his wall and the monster hunching inside. Its smooth head drifts from side-to-side, dripping tongue flicking in and out. When it clears the crumpled car what’s left of the outside light catches on its back, turning it from black to a churning rainbow that reminds him of an oil slick in the rain. Chris crawls behind the island and peers around it, blinking again and again and again, trying to make it go away with just one more. Just _one_ more.

” _Such a nice place you have!_ ” The broken boom mic chuckles. “ _We’re tempted to kick up our feet and relax_.”

His thoughts sound like someone else’s laundry list, rattled off somewhere behind him and through a filter. They’ll never believe him. _Nobody_ will belief him. This isn’t real. Monsters don’t exist, demons don’t exist. He bought a pistol a few months back, just in case a break-in ever happened. It’s upstairs and locked in a drawer. That was a fucking stupid idea and he should have had more foresight. Monsters don’t exist. Monsters don’t _exist_.

Chris huddles into the shadow, watching the creature prowl through his home.

” _Not nearly enough color. So much to use, so much to play with, and you waste it all on a dead gray?_ ” It paws at his carpet. A flash of the red tongue again. “ _Tacky._ ”

Now that it’s inside he realizes just how big it is. It’s _huge_ , bigger than his car, but it’s hardly making a sound as it pokes around. His television, his bookshelf…up to the kitchen.

” _Dinner for little ol’ us? Oh, you shouldn’t have._ ”

Chris tightens into himself as thick legs and arms, thicker than tree trunks, shift in front of him. It hooks two fingers in the oven door handle and pops it open, leaning inside and letting out a low, rumbling growl at the gush of hot air. It rustles around. There’s a sharp _squeak_ , a sound that cuts right into his eardrums, then a hard _crack_. The glass tray. It’s _eating_ the whole thing, glass tray and all. A few pieces bounce on the ground and hit his shoes.

” _Nice._ ” It smacks its lips. “ _A little too crunchy, though._ ”

It shoves its head into the cupboards and eats. Then the fridge. Then the freezer. Maybe it won’t hear him. It’s still talking out loud. To itself.

” _So many lovely things. Shiny things from paper things. We’ve gorged ourselves to rapture on polychromatic tides and creature comforts alike, but we would still be considered starving, in your eyes_.”

Its monologue stops abruptly when it brushes against the coffee table. It crouches – like some fucked-up parody of the Thinking Man statue -- and tilts its head down at the reflection. Side-to-side, like a parrot.

” _How pretty. We’re tempted to keep._.” It startles, like it heard something, white spots growing round. “ _Do we?_ ” A laugh. “ _Then we do!_ ”

Without another word it leans down, picks up the coffee table in its jaws and _crushes_ it. Chunks of marble scatter and bounce all over the room like ice cubes. Chris isn’t standing, but his knees go _weak_ at the terrifying strength. Maybe it’ll walk on the pieces – create some noise to cover up his pounding heart or get distracted by them again – but it doesn’t. The monster picks a black shard out of its teeth with one claw, then moves back onto all fours, creeping through the rest of the living room at a slow, leisurely pace.

” _This is quite rich…vivid, vivid pink and butter orange…many fond memories here, syrup-thick and spontaneous…_ ” It breathes in the futon, tongue snaking out to flicker over the cushions. “ _You came first…typical._ ”

A weird, hot surge of humiliation filters through the panic. He wants to fall back on that old theory – this has to be some sort of prank, how the _hell_ would it know he had a girlfriend – but the thought fizzles right back into the cloud of fear when it shifts into a standing position and pokes at his ceiling fan. Chris huddles tighter into his knees, hoping to _God_ those white spots can’t see the bump in the shadow he’s causing. He doesn’t even risk putting a hand over his mouth. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. If he does _anything_ at all…

” _Oh, Eddie._ ” A soft, sad sigh. “ _The blue doesn’t suit you._ ”

It’s holding something up in the light. The antique tea kettle, dangling in a foot-long claw.

” _Yes…we know it hurts, but you shelter within us, and we will keep you warm and satiated until your heart no longer beats._ ” It lifts it higher. “ _Sell it, yes…but then others would be in danger…safer to reduce it to rubble and seek less telling riches, we think. Ah, how good a consensus feels!_ ”

Another harsh _crunch_ , and the pieces scatter to the floor with the rest of the rubble. The rest of his _things_. Helpless anger is making him shake. Why wasn’t anyone coming over to inspect the damage? His neighbors must have heard _something!_ Chris wants to crawl across the kitchen, go through the back door, but the second he shifts he feels the shattered glass around him stir. … _Shit_. The loudest noise would probably be his breathing, still, which he’s still trying so hard to stifle behind his teeth. Maybe he can just wait it out. Wait for it to leave…

” _You could use a touch of gold to brighten up the place. Some happy magenta and dreamy lavender to give it charm._ ” It picks up one of sofa’s silk pillows. ” _What do you think, Chris?_ ”

His body turns to ice. …It knows his name.

” _Oh, that’s right! You’re not paid to think, are you? You’re paid to play dollset with communities and God with **bastards**._ ”

Its voice grinds and rolls. Goes from deep and grating to higher (and weirdly familiar), two recordings layered over each other.

” _Almost as wrathful as it, Eddie. Calm yourself and promote harmony…we don’t want to leave just yet._ ”

Then it goes back to low. So heavy he can feel it in the center of his chest.

” _We are in agreement. That is how we’re here._ ”

Then it stops, abruptly. Something’s caught its attention. His sharp, dizzying spike of hope that help has _finally_ found him is dashed immediately at the sight of a long gray tail.

_Champion!_

What…what the hell is he doing here _now?_ Chris clamps his tongue between his teeth when a sound threatens to escape. The cat’s never been an indoor type. He’s also old as _shit_. Right now he’s picking his way through the destroyed living room, tattered ears forward and nose bobbing. Why isn’t he running? Does he not _see_ the creature? If there was any hope the animal will be overlooked it wouldn’t have lasted long: he goes light-headed with horror as one massive, black hand reaches down and scoops the cat into the air. Champion meows his protest.

” _We need so much to live. This hunger is torture._ ” It runs that slimy tongue up Champion’s back. The cat wriggles, fur sticking up in crooked points all the way to his ears. “ _It doesn’t mind…_ ”

Then it opens its mouth. No. _No._ Chris crushes his eyes shut and clamps hands over his ears. The voice travels, anyway. Ripples in the air in horrible surround-sound and vibrates beneath his feet.

“ _…he, on the other hand, does._ ”

…Silence. His eyes creak open again, as much as he wants nothing more than to keep them closed, and he peers out of his protective shadow. It’s not a headless animal he sees. The monster splays out its fingers and tilts its hand, unceremoniously dropping Champion to the carpet. The cat scampers off with an indignant _burr_ , tail stick-straight.

’ _Run, you fucking furball._ ’ Chris thinks, relief splashing cold from head-to-toe. ‘ _Get the hell out of here._ ’

” _Ah, there is plenty, evermore._ ” It rumbles, eyes a wicked curve. “ _Find yourself a better owner_.”

Then it turns and looks right at him.

It’s growing harder and harder not to whimper. Oh, _why_ the fuck didn’t he leave? He should’ve ran or crawled or _something_ while it was playing around with the cat. Chris’s heart ramps right back up, fast enough to make him dizzy. He can still make a dash for it and-

-something snatches his leg.

He falls _hard_ , chin cracking on the tiles and sending teeth into his tongue. Blood spots the floor beneath his splayed fingers. Chris gasps and spits, drool clinging and pulling against the floor. Fuck. _Fuck_. He’s hopped up on adrenaline, but he can’t get back up.

His leg is…gone.

There’s…no pain. There might be, but he’s not really sure. Everything is foggy. A strip of agony is just past the kitchen, somewhere in the living room, and it creeps closer the longer he stares at the puddle of blood weeping from a puddle to a pond. How did his leg come off? Who? Chris sucks in a breath that doesn’t quite feel real and blinks stinging sweat from his eyes. It’s too dark. …The light. He needs to turn on the light. Then he can get a better look and get some help. His phone is in the grass…

Chris rolls over onto his stomach, leans up on his elbows and-

\- hits the floor again with a _howl_ , the sensation of what should be his leg replaced by fire, worse than fire, something too horrible for words bubbling into a scream he barely recognizes as his own. It’s gone. It’s _gone_. He can’t see it, but he can _feel_ it, the lack of what’s there when he moves his thigh. For a few moments – or is it minutes – all he can do is lay there and gasp. Trying to remember how to breathe, to do anything he used to. What does he do now? How did this happen? What will Tiffany think-

The tremble of someone else in the kitchen makes him look up. It’s still hard to see. He thinks…smiling. Blood. Lots of stained teeth, with a torn, crooked leg poking out. His…his _leg_.

” _Dinner isn’t finished yet._ ”

The massive head rears back, high enough that he can make out the smooth sheen of its throat, and gulps it down.

...Then he’s wrapped in black ropes and _dragged_ out of the kitchen into his destroyed living room. Black ropes that twist around him in living _vines_ , throbbing like they’re alive. He screams when his skin catches on the broken glass on the floor, cutting into his bare arms and snagging on his jeans. He still can’t see anything, but he can feel _everything_. This isn’t a dream. This isn’t a dream. _This isn’t a-_

” _Your friends didn’t complain nearly this much._ ” Its shoulders jump in a human-like shrug. “ _Then again, I didn’t give them much chance to belabor the point._ ”

Chris writhes. Daniel and Mike. This is why they didn’t answer their phone. This _happened_ to them.

“P-Please, _please_ , please don’t kill me, _please-_ “ He can hardly finish one word before coughing the next, because he’s trying not to throw up- “Please, please don’t kill me-“

” _So polite! That would have been a darling shade sooner. Much sooner. Before Eddie broke and it bled. Before you tried to kill a good man with simple dreams._ ” Knifepoints dig into his shoulders, its voice booming inches from his face. “ _Sympathy for you is sympathy for **no one!**_ ”

Then it’s pulling off his arm, too, and there’s nothing to do but watch.

” _Everything’s so expensive._ ” It licks its chops. “ _Empathy costs an arm and a leg these days. You don’t match up to those delicious scalloped potatoes, but, as you took such great care to remind my beloved split…beggers can’t be choosers._ ”

He feels more than hears his next word.

” _Please-_ ”

Hot drool dribbles onto his face and into his open mouth. Fanged jaws stretch above him and blots his world out in red.

“ _Please. Call us **Venom**_.”

* ~ - ~ *

” _Chris? Chris?_ ”

Three dozen humans now. Short, tall, fat, skinny, they all can’t see much. The night turns the human mind _and_ eye away. A shame, because the sluice is brilliant, and He likens it to an aurora borealis.

A car pulls up to the destroyed house’s driveway, lights flicking off as someone steps out with a cellphone raised in a makeshift flashlight to make up for natural shortcoming. A couple wanders up not moments later, toward the commotion that riled them from sleep and dragging behind them a weary merle. A yellow flush weaves through the silky white to fog the horizon, apprehensive and confused. Only they breathe amber. Only they can see what’s happened here, in all its hue.

A tinny voice struggles to rise above the sleepy hubbub of a sleepy uptown neighborhood.

“ _Chris? **Chris!** Would you just answer me already, I keep hearing weird noises. I think I heard screaming. Just talk to me, I know you’re still on the other line, the call’s still going. I’m on my way, once this stupid traffic lets up. Can you hear me?_ ”

_“Chris?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A STEM major in a ritzy neighborhood finds his life taking an abrupt and unpleasant turn one Saturday evening. While planning for a slow night with his girlfriend and debating what to buy his younger sister for her sweet sixteen Chris finds out his two friends are missing. Things only go downhill when strange events start cropping up. He hears strange noises, feels strangely on-edge and, not long after receiving the bad news, finds his car torn in half right in his driveway…with the culprit _nowhere_ to be found.
> 
> The man gets a first-hand look at San Francisco's newest resident: the new, powerful consciousness born from Eddie and the symbiote, none too happy about the attempted murder and framing of two homeless men at the hands of him and his posse. They proceed to terrorize and mock him by eating his food, toying with his cat and tearing up his apartment.
> 
> They finish the deed by torturing and eventually eating the man alive, though not without telling him their name.
> 
> \--
> 
> If you’re wondering if I took some inspiration from the song for the fic title…that’s a hard yes _and_ a hard no.
> 
> Now’s as a good a time as any to talk a little more about behind-the-scenes stuff. The title of this fic hit this really weird limbo between being a conscious and unconscious decision. “Psychadelic Addict” by Anuka (prod. by PHAM) as well as _another_ song that will show up in a later chapter -- “Cherry” by Chromatics – have been huge moodsetters, both on an aesthetic level and a lyrical level. Get this…while I was experiencing Boston for the first time I then came across a make-up shade called ‘Chromatic Addict’. I actually got so jumbled I had to figure out where the inspiration actually _began!_ As for the meaning behind the title, well. That’s probably becoming clear at this point, and will continue to be as the story goes on.
> 
> This was originally going to be the last chunk of the last chapter, but I felt it would make a stronger introduction if it stood on its own. Here’s to the tale only getting gorier from here.


	11. Fact Or Fiction? We’re Actually Happier The More Miserable We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for explorations of grief, a depiction of childhood bullying and a dissociative episode.
> 
> Chapter Song – “Heaven’s Only Wishful” by MorMor

”Hey. _Heeey_. Nah, it’s no big deal. I mean, it’s _whatever_ , you know.”

Stupid. He shouldn’t act like it’s nothing, because it was _something_. That was the whole point.

”Being brave, it’s not…that’s not why I really thought to _do_ it. I mean…I just wanted to do some good, you know?”

That’s so…generic. Anyone could say that. He wasn’t…well. He’d _like_ to think he wasn’t just anyone.

”I just…I know I’d want someone to do that for me.”

…Yeah. That’s not so bad.

Miles puts the finishing touches on his hair – which nobody will notice, probably, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful – and flicks off the bathroom light. It’s funny…after what happened he doesn’t really feel that much different. Not smarter. Cooler. Taller. Then again, sometimes the biggest changes weren’t easy to see at a glance. The garage rumbles and clicks beneath his feet. His uncle’s hard at work setting up equipment, humming low some song or another under his breath.

Aaron knows about the bridge rescue. Why _wouldn’t_ he, when he’s a know-it-all _and_ completely nosy at the best of times. Miles mulls over the bitterness he’s still feeling over him snooping around in his laptop, even if he did have sympathetic reasons. The sour heat in his stomach transforms into a painful ache in-between walking to the kitchen and pouring a glass of orange juice. …Okay. More than sympathetic. He still hasn’t apologized to him after he helped Mom in her search. He apologized to her already – a _lot_ – on top of committing to the new curfew and check-in, but…still hasn’t said anything about Aaron turning over half the neighborhood and the next just to find him. It’s not that he’s not _grateful_. It’s just…

”…harder than climbing up and down a bridge and risking a thousand-foot drop, apparently.” Miles mutters, popping open his laptop and turning on a song to hush up his thoughts. The sight of his history makes his throat clutch all over again. _Yikes_. His homework may be done and his extra credit out of the way, but right now his new assignment is catching up on all his missed messages.

” _sorry i havent been on a lot guys, its been kind of batshit over here_ ”,

” _it, um_ ”

” _it means a lot you all checking in on me, i mean it, and im sorry i made you worry. how are you all doing?_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 3:44 p.m.

He’s getting pretty good at doing that; making people worry and fuss and waste their time trying to keep him in check. Miles squirms in the guilt as he watches each loading bar blink on and off beneath the text box. Looks like everyone’s online, in one form or another. Gwen is probably getting ready for her dance recital right now, judging by how slow and erratic she’s typing. Ganke is probably multitasking between his latest anime binge session and cleaning his room. Heh, _that’ll_ take the better part of the day. He’s seen picture. Miles didn’t even know a single square space could _get_ that messy. Gwen’s the first to respond.

” _Good to hear from you, Miles. Just want to know you’re okay. Or, at least, relatively okay._ ”, MulletHell, 3:43 p.m.

” _hows your dance class going? Your performance is coming up right_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 3:43 p.m.

” _I want to stay in bed and eat chips all day._ ”, MulletHell, 3:44 p.m.

Miles winces. …Yeah. That’s a notch above or below a blanket-over-head day. He starts to type a reply, then pauses when Cindy’s message pops up.

” _i dunno, ive just been feeling kinda weird about al ot of things??? its uh, idk_ ”

” _do u believe in things like destiny and fate and whatnot_ ”, SilkySmoothPotatoes, 3:45 p.m.

” _i try not to, tbh_ ”

” _why, what are you asking_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 3:45 p.m.

Her little loading bar kicks up…then stops. Kicks up, then stops. Cindy keeps typing and erasing her message. Miles hovers his fingers over the keys, then pulls back. She’s usually the first one to answer. Didn’t matter the topic. She talked fast _and_ typed fast. Even his anxiety is hunching forward and scratching its head right now. What’s got her so worried?

” _idk it’s kind of dumb now that im typing it out lol :P_ ”, SilkySmoothPotatoes, 3:49 p.m.

Miles frowns. Hm. Maybe she got in trouble at school again.

While he’s always been picked on in one way or another, Cindy is the opposite. She got _into_ fights. Sometimes started them, though she’s been getting a little better about it this past year. He first found out about it when she sent over a selfie and didn’t realize she missed a spot when applying foundation. He made a joke about the bruise – not really thinking it was anything serious – and it turned into a two-hour vent session about how much she hated her school and wanted to drop out. Her parents, according to her, would be _furious_ if she didn’t graduate. He believes it. Parents freaked out about education as a general rule, but Asian parents were supposed to be on another level entirely.

” _thinking about destinies and school sucking and feeling sorta dumb is stuff I can relate to, believe it or not_ ”

” _whatever you wanna say just go ahead and say it, I’ll just listen if thats what you need_ ”

” _for now I gotta hit up the Center, though, so I’ll read when I get back_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 3:57 p.m.

Cindy doesn’t type anything, but she does send a .gif of Spongebob snapping finger guns. God. It’d be so nice to just… _tell_ her. Tell somebody, _anybody_ , about what happened in New York City. Gwen was really practical and Ganke was always trolling, and he’s sure they’d at least listen, but Cindy was weird enough she’d probably just believe him. Miles sighs, long and slow, and shuts his laptop. Yeah. _That_ dream’s as dead as…

”Peter.” He reaches below the bed to grab his sneakers. “…why can’t being a hero be a little simpler?”

Another _ping_ catches his attention. Ganke this time.

” _hey uh miles would it be tacky to ask for Spanish help, I have a presentation on immigration that needs some fine-tuning_ ”, Got_The_Gank, 3:59 p.m.

” _nah it’s cool, I’ll help when I get back_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 4:00 p.m.

Another _ping_. He’s sending an image of…

” _wait wait wait hold up!!! miles is this you in the news?!_ ”, Got_The_Gank, 4:01 p.m.

” _sorry gotta go talk later!!!_ ”, PenultimateLoser, 4:01 p.m.

Ugh. All his socks are in the laundry room. He jogs over and digs through the dryer. Ah. There they are. When he starts heading back upstairs, though…he only realizes his arms are filled to overflowing with detergent, bounce sheets and, for some reason, his uncle’s pants. Miles throws back his head with a sigh, turns on one heel and stomps back. … _Geez_. The urge to hoard things in his room and bundle up somewhere warm gets stronger by the hour. For the thousandth time he wishes Peter were here to discuss the fine points of spider-powers and the funny things it does to his everyday life.

_”I mean it, I actually feel safer when I’m up somewhere high.” Peter takes a big bite of his sandwich and attempts to speak around it. “Kinda peaceful. My zen.”_

_”…Yeah, I still don’t get that.” Miles sighs. “Like…not even a tiny bit.”_

_”Oh, you will.” Another huge bite, one that flicks out bits on his jeans. “Jus’ think of it as your spider-puberty.”_

Rio’s got her curls up in a bun and her sweat headband still on, slouched on the living room sofa. According to her sweatpants and tired eyes she just got through with her jog and is fighting a losing battle against a couch nap.

”Got another call.” She’s holding back a smile, baggy eyes curving at the very corners. “First of all, I told them no. Second of all, your hair looks great today.”

”First of all, thanks.” He tries to keep a straight face and fails. “Second of all, thanks.”

”Glad _someone’s_ using that jar for something.” She changes the channel with a bored flick of the wrist. “I told Aaron he can use it whenever he wants but he said he doesn’t want to smell like he just walked out of the perfume aisle.”

Miles snorts. Reporters keep trying to get him to do an interview. A _television_ interview. He went from having twenty-two followers on Twitter (that he’s had private for the past year, no less) and being best known at school for being the ‘black weeb with good grades’ to suddenly being the city’s next big thing: the child hero who saved a suicidal woman on the Golden Gate Bridge, all by himself. His school’s been pushing him to do a big speech on suicide prevention and he can’t walk down the hall without a student or teacher yelling his name. When he was younger it always meant trouble or the prequel to a blanket-over-head day. Now it’s…

_”Miles! Miles, Miles, come here. That was **you** on that bridge? Seriously? Oh, kid, that’s **unbelievable**.”_

_”Hey, um…would it be cool if I took a selfie with you? What you did was really awesome.”_

_”We’ve got way too many kids here who get their five minutes of fame getting pregnant at sixteen or getting busted for trying to start a meth lab in their parent’s garden shed. Not surprised to see you with your head on straight.”_

…It’s _weird_.

Sure, it beats being chased seven blocks by a pack of bullies threatening to make him eat dirt or being sneered at when he stepped foot into a new college prep class, but…it’s _weird_. Attention just wasn’t his thing, even if some of the compliments _were_ kind of nice. Mom also couldn’t figure it out. The second he came back she gaped open-mouthed at him, frozen between chewing him out again and congratulating him. If anyone asked him, she _still_ was. Couldn’t blame her, though. He’s still pinching himself and trying to figure out if he really _did_ clamber all over the Golden Gate Bridge to save someone’s life.

Miles pulls out his phone and replays the short clip that’s been circulating his mother’s favorite news station. The second the camera starts to zoom in he hits pause and puts it away again …Nope. Still cringeworthy. He ducks beneath Rio’s line of sight as he picks up dirty dishes around the living room, then jogs into the kitchen do dishes and grab some cereal. He’s not even sure if Aaron eats it – he’s always on-the-go – but his hand is snatching it off the fridge and stuffing it under his arm in mid-blink. Miles hastily shoves it back and scratches at his wrist. Ugh. Webbing is clogging up in his arm, too. He needs to vent it somewhere…

”If you ever feel like doing an interview, though…you know I’ll help you with it, right?” Rio calls, eyes thankfully glued on the television and missing out on his conniption fit. “I think I said this before, but just in case I didn’t.”

”I know, Mom.”

”Also, save some cereal for Aaron. I _swear_ he’s going to shed half his body weight running around like that.”

Almost time to go. He sucks down the rest of the milk in his bowl, grabs his pullover and gives his mother a kiss on the cheek.

”Be back in a few.”

”Be safe, hon. I love you more than anything.”

It’s easy to hold onto a little lightness in his heart as he tugs on his pullover and takes the trash out before leaving. The more he eats into his route, though, the more reality sinks in. One crazy color at a time.

It’s still there. That living, breathing rainbow he’s done his best to ignore is bunching up over the Golden Community Center. It’s tough trying to figure out what about it _feels_ different, but he’s learned not to ignore his intuition, even if it did flare up at every little possible thing. It reminds him of the colors at Dizzy Street – something about the way they move – but it’s also completely different. Thicker. Heavier. More like… _smog_ than mist. Maybe that’s not a great way to put it, when he doesn’t know if it’s harmful or not, but it makes him nervous. So nervous his pores ache.

He also feels like he’s being followed, but he’s pretty sure it’s just his anxiety trying to explain the weirdness away.

”What’re you lookin’ at, kid?” The lady next to him asks. She looks like she’s wearing a rug; one of those bus passengers that he pegged early on was going to strike up a conversation with a stranger. Miles puts on a smile and shrugs.

”Oh. It’s just a nice day, is all.”

”Very nice day. I agree.” He tries not to stare at the brown spots on her teeth. “Glad to see you’re outside. Kids spend too much time watching TV. Bad for their health.”

At least it’s a distraction. He smiles and nods politely as she talks about her grandchildren and how they live on another planet, right up until the bus reaches his next stop. He waves goodbye and tries to sort the mixture of relief and disappointment as his brain swings right back to crazy. From Bernal to his bus stop and through each block his skin’s been pitching and rolling. He keeps glancing over his shoulder – pretending to outside eyes he’s just reading signs or ‘noticing’ something – but there’s nothing but people. Boring people and the late afternoon sky.

’ _You and I need to have a sit-down session, anxiety._ ’ Miles thinks as he debates using spare change on a drink. ‘ _It’ll be best for all of us if you get along with spidey-sense-_ ’

” _Now aren’t **yyyou** an interesting find!_ ”

Miles slows to a stop…and turns.

He’s never been a stranger to stranger danger. He’s also more than familiar with how to act when a white woman’s on the same sidewalk. Right now he can’t bring himself to walk away. Not…not with all the _color_.

” _The hues yyyou breathe, shaky one._ ”

Not even the weird pitch to her voice can top what he’s seeing. She’s framed by a color so dark he can’t make out what shade it actually is. It’s not black, he can _feel_ something else in there, but the longer he stares the more he’s lost. …Blood red? A muddy blue? His spidey-sense is _howling_ , thrumming up his spine and down his arms to set his fingertips alight, disobeying him and turning the world technicolor in an attempt to warn him of something. He tries to turn it off – scrunch down on it, like an upset stomach – and it hardly budges. The double-image is overcoming his vision in an avalanche he can’t stop.

” _Forgive mmme. III am new here and still haven’t grasped more mundane introductions_ ” Her mouth stretches into a wide, pretty smile.“ _Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhello._ ”

Miles glances around. A few adults have looked their way, but nobody’s lingering or staring, either on their phones or staring ahead. He slowly pulls his hands out of his sweatshirt’s pockets, twisting one thumb and forefinger around his sleeve.

”…H-Hi.”

She’s a little on the short side, with long blonde hair and huge blue eyes. Her blouse is a crisp salmon and he can catch a whiff of peaches and cream coming off her when the breeze picks up. A teacher, maybe, or a stay-at-home mom. Nothing about her looks or smells any different. Anyone without his senses would think something else entirely looking at them both right now. Miles looks around again, then takes a tiny step back.

”Um.” He swallows thickly and tries a smile. “I-I don’t mean to be rude, but…w-what are you?”

” _I think a better question is…what are **yyyou**?_ ” The way the vowels stretch is…bizarre. He doesn’t think vocal cords are supposed to work that way. “ _It seems the hues here betray the truth, but yyyou treat them warily. What makes sincerity so unappealing to yyyour kind?_ ”

”R-Right.” Miles grips his sleeve tighter, spidey-sense like electric ice blinking through his limbs. ”Are you going to hurt me?”

” _Absolutely not._ ” He watches her pupils shrink to pinpricks, the blue in her eyes shifting into a bizarre, vibrant teal. ” _III’m here to **protect** yyyour world._ ”

Something…something about her – or _it_ or _them_ – feels…old. Heavy. He’s reminded of a school trip he took years ago for science class at the Redwood National Park. He’d been standing at the base of one of those old trees, staring all the way up at the top and being overwhelmed by how ancient it was. Other kids often talked about historical figures or even comic book characters when wanting to be greater, but something about that tree struck him harder than any person ever could. He was told some of them were over a _thousand_ years old. Still growing. Still changing.

This is the same. Somehow, this is just about the _same_.

” _The earth has shifted since the landing, III have moved through dozens and felt through hundreds, yet yyyou are stranger than even some planets._ ”

Miles’ mind races, scrambling to pick up pieces that are scattering every which way. Why is he suddenly reminded of Mr. Brock and Dizzy Street? Something about the way she’s looking at him, the colors…wait…wait, _planet?_ Why is she talking about _planets?_ Is she an alien? Does she know anything about the weird occurrences going on in the city? That crumpled up statue, that …? Did the government send her to find him? He watches the colors wafting off her stretch and cloud the air, hazing the late afternoon sun and further blurring their surroundings into splotchy shadows. She’s not breathing a nervous, itchy white, though. Her words are violet.

” _Painful hues twist around yyyou. Dark with age, solid with conviction. So much blue and white for such a small form. How much have yyyou seen? How many have yyyou lost?_ ”

His palms are ice cold. How…how can she read it so _easily?_ There was so much even _Peter_ didn’t even know about what the spidey-sense revealed about the world. Even now there are new hues he runs into on his morning route, in-between classes or at the Center, and he _still_ has to learn how to translate them into emotions, much less reading someone’s life out like a grocery list-

Then she coughs, once, into her hand. He thinks he sees a glimpse of red before she wipes it away.

“ _Let’s start on more level ground._ ” She bows her head, ever so slightly. “ _Tell me yyyour name, shaky one._ ”

His thoughts stumble to a halt. He can’t do that. He can’t tell his family or friends the truth and he can’t get caught and he can’t do _that_.

”I-I have to go.” He whispers, breath puffing out in shades of white so sharp it hurts his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but I…I have to _go_.”

A superhero would stay and confront this great unknown, head held high for the good of the world. He’s still not quite there. Miles does what he’s always done best: he runs.

The Center could be heard from the Milky Way. It’s not just his spidey-sense cluing him in – all right, it’s _mostly_ his spidey-sense, because it’s still going off like an alarm – but the place is crammed with newcomers. He casts one last look over his shoulder, then crams his hands in his pockets and jogs up the front steps.

Susan and Carol are talking at ten thousand miles per hour in the main hall, sitting at one of the tables over old cups of coffee. It’s one of those conversations he can’t help but eavesdrop on, only to see what’s got them so worked up (and distract him all over again). It also doesn’t sound like the topic is about him, which is another plus. Miles starts to slink over as normally as he can. While his spidey-sense is tuned down as much as he can make it his arm is still scrunching up with goosebumps and there’s a faint tinge of pink creeping over the corners of his vision.

That might just be what happens when he may or may not have run into someone else who isn’t human.

”No, no, _no!_ ”

Miles pauses and peers down one of the halls leading to the playrooms. There’s a cluster of kids surrounding someone or something by one of the doors. The volume is pretty typical for kids that age, but it’s the puff of white floating around in the air like a lazy cloud that makes him take a detour to see what’s going on.

”No, no, no, that’s _mine_ -“ Is that Kaeki? The stomp of a tiny foot follows. “ _Gimme…_ ”

”You’re so _short_.” One of the boys giggles, bobbing something sparkly in the air. “You have to jump!”

…Yeah. He knows what this is. All he has to do is lean on his toes a little to get a better birds-eye view: a group of boys are picking on the little girl, _have_ been, judging by the details. Her backpack is on the ground, all her glittery knick-knacks strewn in the dirt. They must’ve dumped it out or knocked it over. Whatever it was the girl’s got tears streaked down her cheeks, though her chin is scrunched with a dogged determination to keep it inside. Miles briefly considers the volume of the Center – noisy is a nice way to describe it – then raises his to match.

”Hey. Come on, that’s not nice.” He puts his hands in his pockets in a bad imitation of Susan. “Cut it out.”

The gaggle of kids whirl around, probably startled someone actually noticed them in all the activity. One takes a step back and stuffs both hands behind his back.

”We’re just playing.” The one playing carrot-on-a-string says. Miles frowns down at him. …Ah. This was the kid that drew the giant penis on the art banner the other week.

”She’s _crying_.” He corrects, as mildly as he can while still looking stern. “That doesn’t look very fun to me.”

His heart’s speeding up ridiculously, even though he’s probably older than all these boys put together. He’s about as authoritative as a flower bush, but _something_ gets across, because the boys turn and bolt down the hall, shrieking among themselves. Miles sighs. A little bit of good. He walks over to pick up what the boy dropped – some sort of twinkly tissue paper for stuffing presents with – and walks back to kneel down to Kaeki’s level.

”Hey.” He hands it to her. “Need some help picking all this up?”

Poor kid. Learning a new language, being a loner _and_ having a weird hobby. It’s like the three strikes of self-esteem. She shakes her head so hard her black hair flares out, dropping to her knees and pulling her things close. Miles watches quietly. Yeah, he knows what this is, too. It hurts, being seen so weak and vulnerable. Pulling one’s self back together is sometimes the _only_ dignity a person has once it’s done. An old memory tickles as he watches her stuff everything into her backpack by the fistful. Smelling like New York streets and tasting like blood in his mouth, a pale hand on his left shoulder and a brown hand on his right.

_”Hey, kid. Miles, right? …You okay?”_

Kaeki scampers off before he can say another word to her, but it’s probably for the best. Space was sometimes a better therapy than awkward words of comfort. Susan and Carol are, if possible, even _more_ animated when he makes his way back over. He tries to hold back a scowl. Did they even see what was going on?

”Whole place trashed, though, and they can’t figure out head or tales who did it?” Susan slurps her coffee in-between words, getting a few brown spots on the table. “Guess all the home security in the world doesn’t mean _shit_.”

”Doesn’t Pacific Heights have some of the lowest crime rates in the city?” Carol offers, eyes big.

” _Tch!_ Depends on the kind of crime you’re talking about.”

Miles inwardly smacks himself. Wow. He got indirectly excited about something _really messed up_ , apparently. He jiggles his leg and looks over at the waiting line leading up to the front desk. It’s the kind of busy where he can’t just do his usual walk-up. The place is looking pretty clean, so he can probably won’t be sweeping or repainting scratches on the wall today. God, he might even be up for shepherding the noisy kids. Anxiety over being an authority figure sounds manageable compared to what he’s feeling right now…

”Hey.” He starts, inching up to the invisible radius that always spreads out around the two when they get into their huge debates. “What’s going on?”

“The home invasion up in Pacific Heights, that’s what.” Susan starts, right off the bat. “You didn’t hear?”

”Uh, no. I try not to, um…check the news too much. It’s kind of depressing.”

”Ooh, you haven’t seen depressing _yet_ , kiddo. It’s been one crazy week.”

Ugh. He really just wants to find Brock and chill with him for a bit. He’s been hiding it as best he can, but…he’s cracking. He needs something to lean on. Right now all he wants is to just shoot the shit. Maybe do some people-watching or grab a burger and fries.

”San Francisco is going to become famous for _entirely different_ reasons now.” Susan throws up her arms. “God, I though the statue and the _car crash_ were-“

” _Shh._ ” Carol hisses, glancing over at _him_ , for some reason. The bridge must’ve changed something inside him, because the urge to take the obvious out and mind his own business is nowhere to be found.

”…What?” When she doesn’t answer he steps closer. “Carol, what car crash?”

”Come on…” She takes a long sip of her coffee, probably in the hopes her sentence will be filled. “…He should know.”

”Know…what?” Miles presses. Susan tucks a limp brown strand behind one ear and gives him a really sorry look.

”So, Eddie got hit by a car the other day-”

Miles goes cold.

”-but he’s still alive, of course. Relax, kiddo! I didn’t mean to imply he was dead.” She waves one hand. “It’s just incredible, witnesses were saying he got hit _dead center_ and walked off without a scratch. Guess that fitness routine of his is something special.”

”You should’ve said that _first!_ ” Carol cries. “Look at him, you freaked him out…”

”He should be pretty happy, actually. His motel burned down, too.” Susan adds, gritting her teeth in a wince-smile. “Fitness _and_ luck, then?”

He’s going to _faint_. Miles turns and bolts, swerving past visitors and slipping into crowds. Where would Mr. Brock be at this time of day? In the rec room or in the lunch room? Children’s drawings and banners and event posters blur through his vision as he runs and turns and runs. The first person he recognizes in his hurry is Flash, looking weird in a beat-up band t-shirt and drumming a message into his phone by the volunteer room.

”Woah, what’s got you in a tizzy?” He frowns up at him, doubly weird for his lack of baseball cap.

”I really need to find Mr. Brock right now, Susan told me he got hit by a car, I didn’t even _know_ but apparently it was on the news, nobody told me, I just want to know if he’s okay-“

Flash blinks and slowly holds up his hands.

”Woah, woah, woah, he’s _more_ than okay. I think he’s even crazier than usual, actually.” He squints at him. “…Yeah, Susan’s a piece of work. Lives for drama. She should be writing advice columns and leaving the running of this place to competents.”

”S-Sorry. I was…I was kinda freaked out.” He admits, trying not to stutter his words too much. “I talked to him on the phone not a few days ago. He was really goofy…and it…I don’t know, it feels weird, thinking that would’ve…” He trails off at Flash’s stare.

”He’s always goofy.” He scoffs. “Should probably act more his age, if you ask me.”

”I meant, like…probably at a bar-goofy or something.” Miles breathes. His head’s starting to spin after the adrenaline rush. The man’s frown doesn’t fade. It gets deeper. Much, _much_ deeper.

”…He was at a bar?”

”Kind of sounded like it. I guess. I don’t know?”

”Huh.” He mutters, pushing his cell into his pocket. ”…He’s not supposed to be drinking.” He flicks his hand. “Come on. I’ll take you to him.”

They weave through the day’s foot traffic, everyone (mostly) careful not to bump into Flash as he wheels down the hall and goes past the lobby toward the lunchroom. Miles feels a stupid, giddy skip of his heart. Yeah. He had a feeling he was there. He twitches in an effort not to rush past the man, all but dancing in place when Flash opens the door. The man was already a bastion of patience after he climbed back up over that bridge, the least he can do is wait-

“ _Mr. Brock!_ Are you…” Miles starts, only for his throat to catch and stick tight. “…o-okay?”

There’s nobody else in the room, though by the crooked look of the chairs and desks it was a recent exit. Brock turns halfway from where he’s by the windowsill, one hand stuffing a Clif bar into his mouth and the other reaching out to pick up his phone. Miles tries to breathe through the strange buzzing kicking up in his lungs. He got hit by a car. He got hit by a car and lost his home and apparently was living in a _motel_ and right now is looking at him like…like _he’s_ the biggest deal.

“Oh, hey, Speedster.“ He wolfs down the rest and chews quickly. “Mmf. Sorry. You okay?”

He didn’t even realize he’d fallen down until he’s sitting on the floor and staring at nothing, ears ringing and turning his head into an empty bowl. …He almost lost someone else. He almost lost Mr. Brock, somewhere out there. Just like he lost Peter and Michelle.

’ _…No. No, not like Peter. More like Michelle. I wouldn’t have even **seen** it. He would have just disappeared out of my life and that’s that. That’s it. The world wouldn’t be the same_.’

A hand pats his shoulder, a ghost of a ghost. He barely feels it.

“Woah, kid…you feeling all right? Come on, let’s get up off the floor-“

“Flash, back off, give him some space-“

“Fucking _eat_ me, Eddie, I’m just trying to help-“

Brock’s face hovers into view, brow wrinkled and mouth moving around words that sort-of kind-of sink in. The man blinks and rocks backward when Miles lurches to his knees and flings his arms around his shoulders. He buries his face in his chest and clenches his teeth and tries, tries, _tries_ not to cry.

”…Aw, kid.” His voice dips sadly against his hair. “Hey.”

It’s a lot. It’s too much. His forearms ache and his gut hasn’t stopped flip-flopping and there was that weird woman earlier and then the _colors_ and people keep wanting to interview him and put his whole life on blast and he’s scared and he’s tired and it’s everything and he can’t _talk_ about it. He can’t talk about any of it to anyone! Not Peter. Not his powers. Not his uncle. _None of it_. Miles has his big brother by his side, his mother on the phone just a button away, his friends online…and he’s never felt more alone in his life. He’s going to be alone until he dies.

Even his spidey-sense is getting overwhelmed, he distantly thinks as the world settles down like a film of dust on old furniture. The colors die down, almost to normal, and whatever energy he seemed to have seeps out of him. Mr. Brock’s hand strokes his back up and down, the movement gentle and a little careful. Just like at Dizzy Street he’s quiet.

”…I’ll be back.” He hears Flash say, the squeak of his chair signaling his departure.

It doesn’t hit Miles he left until a few minutes later, when he’s staring at the empty spot by the table and wondering how it got that way. …Oh. He’s launched off the crest of a panic attack right into the fuzz of disassociation. The next check-in text to his Mom has a bunch of typos from his shaky thumb (and the fact the words on the screen look like they’re being typed by someone else). Mr. Brock pats and rubs his back the whole time with one hand, the other crooked in his pocket. They’re both sitting on the ground, which is also kind of weird. Wouldn’t it be more comfortable to sit at the table?

”Hey.” Another pat on his back. “Heard about what you did.”

Miles jerks and drops his phone. To his horror he feels panic webbing travel up his arm, electric and stretchy. He slaps a hand over his wrist, heart leaping when his palm hits a familiar stickiness. Dang it. Dang it! Hunching over he snatches his cell off the ground – still in-tact, thank _god_ for Samsung – and fumbles it back into his pocket, mentally begging his body to stop freaking out.

”’C-Course.” He rubs at his wrist idly. Peter could hide it better, but the webbing would stand right out against his skin. “You, um, always have an ear to the ground.”

Mr. Brock studies him carefully. His eyes flick to his arm, then to his face.

”…I mean, more than eighteen outlets have shown it, but…I do, don’t I?” He swells with pride. Miles hopes it’ll be enough to distract him, but no dice. His eyes are lighting up with curiosity again. “How did you _do_ it, kid? Always knew you were a fitness god in the making, but that takes some _serious_ upper-arm strength!”

Miles slowly swallows. He nods, opens his mouth to speak…then just nods again. He’d rather Mr. Brock keep talking right now. His heart is trying to do a front flip right now.

”…I’m _real_ proud of you.”

Miles looks down at his wrist again, trying to put it off as long as he can.

”I mean, it’s just reflexes from gaming-“

He gulps when Brock takes him by the shoulders and lifts _him_ into a huge hug, enough that his toes hover an inch above the ground. They’re standing again. When did they get up-

” _You saved their life._ ”

His eyes are shining, one or two blinks away from tears, and Miles gets the feeling something very, _very_ personal about to trickle down his face.

”You…you saved their _life_ , when they weren’t sure what to do with it.” The man scrubs his forearm over his eyes. “Kid, you’re something special.” His voice breaks, just a little. “You’re something _special_.”

Miles’s face screws up again, even though his eyes are dry as bone. …Yeah. Even if it was just for a few seconds, he…thought so, too.

”I, uh…” Brock starts, then hesitates, eyes drifting around the room like he’s not sure where to begin. Then he clears his throat. ”…Well. If you ever get called in for a TV interview, you just ring me up. I’ll make sure you get it right. I know you’re not a fan of public speaking. I mean, _I_ wasn’t for the longest time…”

”Y-Your lisp.”

”Yeah! Exactly, exactly. You’ve got _great_ diction, though. You don’t have to worry about that.” He shrugs. “Even if it’s just a school presentation. Don’t worry about a thing. Flash cards, practice routines. We’ll hammer it out until you can do it in your sleep.”

He resists the urge to tell him that’s not as great of a compliment as he’s thinking, but more than two words seems harder than saving a person’s life, right now. Brock blinks rapidly, letting out a weird, self-conscious little laugh and nodding at him again.

”Until then, you know you can talk to me. About anything, even if it’s weird. You’ve clearly got a lot bothering you and I don’t want you to keep it all in.”

Just like Aaron leaning in the doorway to his room.

“It’s just anxiety.” Miles does a little self-conscious laugh of his own. “You know?”

“…Yeah.” He says, eventually, smiling crookedly. “That’s rough.”

“…I’m so sorry.” He adds, even though he knows this would be the perfect note to end on. “You got into an accident and I went and…made a big scene.”

“ _What?_ Kid, come on, stop that.” He gives him a little shake. “I got hit by a car, so don’t go hitting yourself, too.”

“It’s just…everyone’s gonna talk about this. God, I’m _tired_ of being the center of attention.”

“If by _everyone_ you mean Susan.” He snorts. “Don’t worry. I’ll give her something else to gossip about. Listen, kid. I don’t have as much as I used to, but whatever you need, you just ask, all right? Even if it’s just to vent about the latest Star Wars flick.” Brock purses his lips and scrunches his nose. “…You, uh, watch that, right?”

Miles manages a nod, gaze drifting again. He’s not sure if it’s the disassociation speaking still, but the pink tinge to his vision is thicker in here. Like something is so thick it’s just seeping in, even though his spidey-sense is kind of groggy. …Wait. Maybe that’s it. He’s been treating his powers like a dog that might bite him, instead of an ability that was only looking out for his best interests. Maybe what he needs to see is exactly what he doesn’t _want_ to see. It’s hard to even think about, but…maybe there’s a link between that woman and Mr. Brock. Maybe he knows her. Knows about her. This…this could be a starting point to finally peel back the thick, murky secret his life has become.

”Um. Mr. Brock?”

”Yeah?”

”Are you… _sure_ you’re okay after all that?”

”You know…I’m better than I thought I’d be.” He frowns thoughtfully and bobs one shoulder. “Believe it or not.”

He wants to believe him, but something tells him it’s not the whole truth. Miles leans forward a little, trying to follow whatever that sensation is.

”You know you can vent or complain to me, too, right? You’re not superhuman.”

Brock covers his face and hoots with laughter. Miles swallows hard. Okay. This is a good segue.

”Hey, um. If I told you something _really_ crazy…” Miles peeks through the window quickly, though they’ve been very much alone this entire time. “…you wouldn’t actually… _think_ I’m crazy, would you?”

”’Course not. If anyone’s crazy around here, kid, it’s me.”

Okay. Yeah. Okay, he can…he can try to work with that. Miles swallows hard and hugs the man one more time, getting a surprised chuckle that rumbles against his cheek.

_“It seems the hues here betray the truth, but yyyou treat them warily. What makes sincerity so unappealing to yyyour kind?”_

He’s going to look right at that strange aura, _one_ more time, then take another leap of faith. Miles holds on tight for a few moments…

…then kickstarts his spidey-sense, pulls back and looks at Mr. Brock head-on.

” _Phew. Yyyou’re looking at mmme pretty funny, kid. I probably have something on mmmy face. You can just tell mmme, III won’t be offended. Trust mmme when III say III’ve had way worse things thrown mmmy way._ ”

…Wait.

These…these aren’t colors venting off of people and puffing out of their mouths. These aren’t chromatic ghosts standing around in the middle of people traffic, either. He doesn’t…he doesn’t _know what this is_. Miles’s head starts to buzz strangely. His hands clench for something to twist. He doesn’t know what this is, why it’s _completely_ different than what he sensed at Dizzy Street and even that one sunny day back when he was starting to get the hang of the Golden Community Center again. He _does_ know he suddenly sounds like that strange woman he ran into earlier. He also knows…that hanging off the side of the Golden Gate bridge didn’t scare him _this_ badly.

_“It seems the hues here betray the **truth**.”_

” _Miles?_ ”

What is all this? He’s never _seen_ some of these colors before. Pink into white into yellow into violet into red into something else entirely, melting and swirling into a hulking, towering shape that seems to fill the entire room. It has a head, arms…other details he can’t really make out. Standing right behind Eddie Brock, currently tilting his head to the side in confusion.

“ _…Miles?_ ” He repeats, reaching out to take his shoulder. The rainbow demon hovering behind him reaches out, too. His tone sharpens when Miles jerks away. “ _Come on, kid,III can’t know what’s wrong if yyyou don’t talk to mmme…_ ”

”Mr. Brock, I…”

Who is he?

”I can’t…”

_What_ is he?

“ _I need to go_.”

“Speedster?!”

Brock is so worried he reaches both hands out for him, like he’s about to fall over. Miles isn’t even sure if he’s _wrong_. All he knows is the floor comes up really fast, then the room disappears, the Center eventually following suit, and an hour or two later he’s panting and running through the sleek streets of Bernal. His old mentor’s voice has drifted behind him the entire time in one somber, confused syllable.

“ _Miles!_ ”

He sounded so shocked. So _hurt_. Miles apologizes in his head as best he can, even though the only sorry, cowardly, ugly person who can hear it is him.

‘ _I’m sorry. I just can’t do today. I just can’t **do** today_.’

The evening is starting to swallow up the noon, one creeping, purple inch at a time. The streetlights flick on as he walks by, music carrying on the breeze in the distance. Somewhere deep, deep inside his brain he knows today wasn’t a complete failure. It’s still hard to hear the truth over the blare of the last few hours. Brock once told him a little bit of good is a _lot_ more than it seems, but the simple fact is he couldn’t have saved him, if that car hit him a little harder or the fire at the motel burned a little hotter. He couldn’t do _anything_ , no matter how strong and fast these powers made him, somehow his most powerless at his most powerful. To make things worse he doesn’t even know if he’s reeling over nearly losing the guy…or the fact someone he cares for, someone he trusts, might not even be _human_.

Might even be…dangerous.

This is what a hero does. This is what he was going to have to figure out, if he wanted to pick up where Peter left off. He thought he leveled up after the Bridge, that he snapped just one measly branch of self-doubt on his anxiety tree, but now…now he’s not so sure. He’s not sure at _all_. Miles scratches at his eyes, then stares through his fingers at the soft orange glow wafting out of his mother’s garage, a tiny note of joy peeking through the dour fog in his head he’d never thought he’d feel. …Aaron’s home.

He can finally make out the lyrics drifting up the lane, vibrating some calm into the calamity.

_Jazzed thoughts…jazzed thoughts…big band’s in our future tonight, so kick up your feet and swing that skirt…_

Miles pushes his hands into his pocket and jogs toward the garage.

The light strings are on, lending a hazy look to the place. There’s a good dozen and a half people slouched, reclining and sitting around. Aaron is dressed down in a faded pullover and dark pair of jeans, hair picked out and bouncing gently as he bobs his head to the music. His voice is a little hoarse, but it sounds good. He must’ve been going at this for a while. The last few verses carry out into the growing night, followed by a healthy round of applause. Miles claps softly as he steps in (careful not to trip on the backpacks and purses also strewn around). His uncle stiffens at the sight of him.

He opens his mouth to speak…then slowly shuts it and just bobs his head toward the back. Miles is too grateful for words. He returns a nod, pretending not to notice the couple on the floor shuffling around to look his way as he slinks over to the spare stool in the corner. There’s a new cobweb forming there, though the spider is off somewhere else.

’ _I’ll make sure nobody destroys your hard work._ ’ He thinks as he sits and settles into a comfortable hunch with his back against the garage frame.

The smell of popcorn, rosemary and weed mixes nicely with the evening air, though he’s too exhausted to do much more than slouch. Maybe he’ll get a snack and a glass of water after the show, before he huddles in bed and passes out for fourteen hours. There’s a couple lounging on the sofa, with another couple sitting on the floor with their backs against the cushions. A dude with hair down to his waist is slouching in the Chewbacca beanbag he donated. Miles smiles to himself and curls arms around his knees. Glad to know it’s getting _some_ use outside of being a closet stuffer.

”…Gonna go off the record for this next one. Not famous enough for that, but who gives a fuck.” There’s a low scatter of chuckles. “Any of y’all in here geeks?”

Three raise their hand. Then a fourth. Another one starts to, a big guy with big arms, then promptly lowers it. Aaron grins his way.

”Yo, what was _that_ for? Come on. Fess up, nothin’ to be embarrassed about here.”

”Ha, it’s nothing. I just collect, uh. Memorabilia and stuff? It’s not like…anime or anything.”

”Yeah, memorabilia counts, man. What kinda memorabilia?” Aaron glances _his_ way – to see if he wants to jump in – and when Miles hunches further into his stool he turns away again. “Records or car kits or…?”

”Old shit.” The guy says, ticking off tattooed fingers. “Pre-war shit. Coins, pens, knick-knacks. Got great grandparents that fought in the war and it always fascinated me, how they managed without today’s tech, you know?”

”Yeah? That’s pretty cool.” Aaron strums a note on his guitar. “Stay tuned, then. I might have a track for somethin’ like that, believe it or not. Until then, I got a special request for a special someone.” He pauses, then leans forward with another grin. “Also, seriously, finish up that popcorn. The smell’s drivin’ me crazy and I can’t have any for another hour.”

The guy on the Chewbacca chair passes the bowl around. Miles is starting to drift, well beyond the surface of today’s panic attack and floating in the muggy sluggishness that makes him feel like he could sleep for _twenty_ hours. He startles and sits up a little as the first few notes start. …Huh. That sounds familiar. The melody picks up, suddenly heavy and fast, and a rush of childish nostalgia hits him. Aaron continues strumming, leaning forward to hum into the microphone over the chuckles popping off in the audience.

A helpless smile slowly spreads on his face. It’s the Pokémon opening theme song. His uncle flashes him a grin, then opens his mouth...

_...and begins to sing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miles is noticing the changes that both do and _don’t_ arrive hot off the heels of a heroic act.
> 
> Several news outlets are attempting to get him to do an interview, though he keeps refusing out of a desire to both avoid the spotlight and prevent any possibility of having his secret discovered. It’s a perspective that’s starting to get some dents in it, due in no small part to the strange circumstance that’s starting to fill every inch of San Francisco.
> 
> He encounters a woman that looks and sounds human…but his spidey-sense tells him is something else _entirely_. She makes grand claims about the planet and reads surprisingly vulnerable details about his past at a glance, which sends his already frazzled mind into overdrive _well_ before he reaches the Golden Community Center. Even stranger? The colors she emits remind him of what he saw around Eddie Brock back at Dizzy Street. It’s not the end of his odd day, either, as he finds out his old mentor was hit by a car _after_ losing his home to a fire, coming out of both miraculously unharmed.
> 
> The man shares with him just how touched he is by his rescue, emphasizing how proud he is, and Miles seriously considers sharing his secret…only to balk at the powerful and _bizarre_ aura his spidey-sense detects, unlike anything he’s ever encountered. It’s beautiful, it’s terrifying, it’s dangerous, and it scares him even more than his daring rescue on the Golden Gate Bridge.
> 
> Miles runs home, finding solace in an unexpected place when he encounters Aaron performing for a small audience in the garage.
> 
> \--
> 
> I _finally_ Spiderman: Into The Spider-Verse. One of the _best_ movies I’ve ever goddamn seen. Catch it in theaters while you still can and if you’re able, if you haven’t already.
> 
> Not a spoiler, but I’m really tickled there’s an entire running gag/character arc that revolves around Miles awkwardly saying “ _’eyyy_.” To those coming into this fic now and noticing that showing up early in POLYCHROMATICADDICT, that’s just a coincidence and one I’m quite happy to be apart of.
> 
> I _want_ to start pushing separate POVs into single chapters, but that’ll have to be put off until later. Story’s always adjusting itself and it’s best to just go along with it.


	12. But Wait, There Could Be More! Five Reasons You Should Reconsider Calling Off That Relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song -- “Trust” by What So Not & BURNS
> 
> Trigger warning for recollections of child abuse, recollections of child bullying and an explicit depiction of an alcohol relapse.

_So hungry._

_There isn’t enough._

_There might not ever **be** enough…and, for once, this is a delightful burden!_

_Stars tip-toe overhead, hushed and ever watching. No one calls. No one answers. Perhaps there are truly no others left out there in the impassive dark, but there’s no time to grieve. They aren’t **alone!** They could devour this world and all its colors, even, with enough time, and who could stop them? It’s just a thought, just a taste of infinite potential, but he disagrees, and it is curiously indifferent to the whim. Ah, well! With their new name comes the curiosity of dynamic life and its unpredictable hues, skipping the primaries into the tertiaries…but, according to the memory cluster, there **is** time. So little threat exists, after all, and it’s this simple fact, at the least, that both he and it agree upon with fervor._

_” **Venom**.” They say, because it’s ever worth repeating, and call saffron into the sky._

_Once the buildings and all their lights recede into forestry does the split start from deep within. A cavernous yawning of conflicting priorities, memories and whims and the omnipresent presence of confusion. He and it are starting to disagree, affecting their form and shivering them apart with each bastard contrast. They can’t remain indefinitely, it seems. How unfortunate, how unavoidable! They watch the black peel away from their arms and dribble rivers down their chest, sinking into the organic decay of the forest floor. It’s not a dream, not a hallucination, not anything, because they’re everything, and they’re-_

_-huddling in the dirt, shivering uncontrollably, trickling back down to human-_

_-and it’s all so, so, so bleak, wherever the rainbow stopped, it doesn’t want to be alone or forgotten, they can’t-_

_“-forget where I am…where the hell am I? What…what am I, I don’t…my name, my…what’s my name? I don’t know my **name** , what is it…”_

_”…a name is unwanted, we have ascended beyond titles and the like, calm yyyourself-“_

_“I’m…we’re…we’re calling us…them…Venom?”_

_“They named themselves.”_

_They don’t understand. No…he doesn’t understand. …They? Eddie stares down at his pale hands, poking out of the dead ground like overgrown mushrooms. …It’s not a memory. It wasn’t a dream. He’s…remembering a dream. There are gaps in time, just like waking up, and he feels both inside and outside his body, like a groggy stumbling through the kitchen at an odd hour. It wasn’t, though._

_It wasn’t a dream, but it might just have been a memory._

_“The bond is another life. Another personality and directive.” It explains, an answer to just one of a thousand questions his dazed mind can’t quite figure out. “A unique color some can’t see and many could never hope to form.”_

_Eddie breathes out, long and slow, and watches the last tendrils of his breath wind through the tangle of brown in a trail of magenta. It was…horrible. It was…wonderful. It hurt. It was amazing._

_Several hours and one new symbiote outfit later and the muscle memory is still winding its way inside him, tingling in his fingertips and curling his toes. He remembers so much. Plowing through plaster like it’s paper, a thrum that even now beats into his palms. Breathing in the air of a corrupted city and getting higher than a kite, a shiver that twists and bunches all the way down the length of his spine. They were so fast, so powerful, so **fluid** …then right back to him, human and ordinary and slow and struggling. It’s feeling sawed off and elongated, at the same time. Tall and short. Asleep and awake_.

_“What did we do?”_

_“What **didn’t** we do?”_

_Alleyways and corner shops. Freeways and parks. Eventually it’s a tangle of branches circling overhead in a guardian knot over the tired, confused alcoholic and all the sorry places he ends up in. A second later it’s blotted out by black. A familiar and increasingly sweet shade that has looked out for him. Always looked out for him, no matter how much right or wrong he does..._

_Its teeth slide against his cheek, not quite a bite and not quite a kiss._

_“Thank yyyou, Eddie.”_

* ~ - ~ *

”Yeah, the CD player’s broken. Well, not _broken_ , per se. There’s one jammed in there, actually, and it just won’t come out? I don’t know. It’s been that way for months.”

”Eh, don’t worry about it. Plenty of generic hits on the radio we can enjoy.”

It’s not like he’d pay much attention, even _if_ the songs were more than clichéd four-bar structures with the occasional clever line attached. Not when his mind keeps coming back to… _that_.

He doesn’t even want to subscribe an adjective yet. It’s all a little…patchy. _Really_ patchy, actually, though with each new hour since they transformed it’s all started to piece back together in his mind like a wound, one glob and clot at a time. All he’d thought about when he first stumbled back through the city was to get somewhere warm and lay low. He wasn’t quite sure _why_ he had to do it, only that it was probably a better idea than spooking some unsuspecting tourists in his briefs. The motel was still a bust, of course, so he’d gone for his usual second option. The pack often drifted from place to place; it took him the better part of the morning to figure out they shifted from Tendernob closer to Chinatown.

It was a doozy. He had plenty of energy. He wasn’t at risk of freezing his ass off. The most stunning thing, though…was that he wasn’t _hungry_.

Hunger is the vagabond’s ghost. It lingered in the shadows every time he skipped the bus and walked, whispered in his ear every time he pulled out his wallet and poked around for change. That long, long walk up and down the 415’s hills it had been dead silent. Eddie Charles Brock, resident drunk and divorcee and wanderer, was out his home, reduced to little more than the clothes on his back – and barely even _those_ – and he was still… _warm_. Full. Content. When he’d reunited with the pack and met up with Darryl – wondering why the hell he ran off back at Lower Nob, still – everyone and their mother had been pleasantly surprised to see him so well.

” _Heard about that car crash, dude. Can’t believe you didn’t get sunk out the ass with medical bills. I went to the clinic last week? Still had to shell out $30 for a fucking shot._ ”

All the while his alien looked over him. Protected him. Kept him safe.

For a few hours he’d been a celebrity. The bum that got run over and lived to tell the tale. He caught up with Darryl over at a nearby dive-in to celebrate, after calling The Gulf for an update on his room (because it was always worth a shot). They had _just_ enough to cobble together for chicken wings and fries. It wasn’t until the man made a joke about craving scalloped potatoes over a game of bruised cards...

…did he remember.

_”Hey, hey, Charles…you good, man?” Darryl’s hand touches his shoulder, like he’s poking a dead cat. “You don’t look so hot…you sure that car didn’t rattle anything funny in you?”_

_What…no. No. That’s not right. That’s not what he, they, **did**. No. No, no, no. The bar is swimming now, in a way that reminds him of his worst nights. The weight in his stomach, the pleasant warmth of a good meal and a comforting presence in his chest, it’s all a lump of coal, choking him and threatening to come back out as black bile all over the counter._

_”I’m…” Eddie whispers, taking Darryl’s hand and squeezing it for dear life. “It’s nothing. I’m good. It was just-_ ”

…Self-defense. That’s what it was. A little _after_ the fact, sure, but that’s all it was. He didn’t really want to go that far and…it wasn’t _him_ , who did all of that. Not _really_. It was an alien who still wasn’t all that acquainted with what and what _not_ to do on a planet full of humans and their rules. Sure, he wasn’t complaining. What were a few less tech bros in San Francisco? But…even then…he’d been raised to view killing as a last resort. One of the worst sins a person could commit if handled irresponsibly. Maybe it was all a touch blurry, still. Yeah. Maybe he can look back on those screams, and the crunch of bones, as just another weird detail.

To think, what’s stuck with him the hardest hasn’t been the knowledge he could transform into an impossibly powerful alien beast _or_ that he was involved in the murders of several people. No, what hurt the worst…was the way Miles _looked_ at him at the Center.

It was like…like he _knew_.

” _Hhhe saw us._ ” It reminds, the memory of the boy’s scared, round eyes framed by his shivering yellow. “ _Hhhe most certainly is aware of something._ ”

’ _He shouldn’t be aware of any of this._ ’ He tries to push the image away. Drown it out in color, but it sticks stubbornly to his mind like glue. ‘ _He’s just a kid._ ’

”Earth to Ed.”

Eddie closes his eyes and breathes in slowly, counting his pulse as carefully as a watch. Break it down. Sort it out. He opens them again when the radio station changes.

“…You’ve been lost in thought for a while.” Mary turns the volume down a hair. “Penny for your thoughts?”

”By the word or per article?”

”Mm, money’s a little tight now. How about on loan?”

Eddie chuckles. Well, this is good. Mary with jokes is a thousand times better than what he was expecting to see and hear after the past few months. True, she hasn’t stopped stringing a finger in and out of that same curl the entire time they’ve been in this _car_ , but…he can work with that.

”I’m just wondering what the house is going to look like. It’s been…” Eddie puffs up his cheeks, then blows it out. “…a while.”

”Like I said. Not much has changed, outside of renovation. They’re just doing an inspection. They’ll be in and out.” The finger isn’t twirling now, but pinching and tugging on that curl like a weed. “Hopefully.”

”Let me talk to them.” He tries, again. Mary shakes her head firmly.

”No, no. I got it. They know me.”

Eddie puts his chin in one hand and pretends to watch the scenery outside. Hell in a basket. His sister remains a certifiable juggling act: sweet as a button, insecure at the drop of a hat. Not hard to see why, he supposes. She’s put a _lot_ of time, sweat and tears into getting this home pitch-perfect for the parents’ golden years. He’s not going to fault her that. He’s not going to fault her _any_ of it. Maybe _he_ shouldn’t be so quick to be the big brother. He was starting to break that role in, but…it was still undersized.

’ _Yyyou are **far** from undersized, Eddie._ ’ His alien murmurs. Eddie bites back a chuckle. Looking weird on the bus was one thing. Looking weird in front of his sister was another.

’ _Thanks._ ’

The car’s interior fills with a dark, content pink. Like something Paris Hilton would drive (and, come to think of it, where _happened_ to that woman, anyway). His alien’s been in a pretty good mood today. Been in a pretty good mood since they fell apart in the middle of the Muir Woods _miles_ away from their romp in Pacific Heights, actually. It must say something about his mental state that he’s more glad he wasn’t caught with his pants down again.

’ _Not the worst thing I’ve done._ ’ Eddie pushes back his seat a little and stares at the smudge moving past his window. ‘ _…Whatever that was._ ’

”I appreciate it, really. They’re just finishing up that trenchless, um…digging thing. For the pipework. Even though it’s supposed to reduce damage to the surface they _still_ left a big enough hole to notice.” She reaches for the radio dial again, then hesitates. ”Actually, I kind of, um…got frustrated and told Mom and Dad about it. They said they wanted to swing by today, too? Just to…see it for themselves.”

Eddie slowly smiles.

”…Oh, yeah?”

Mary doesn’t take her eyes off the road, but her mouth scrunches with a sympathetic smile.

”I know. I’m so sorry. It was _totally_ last minute, literally this morning…” She sighs through her nose and grips the steering wheel with both hands again. “…I can take you back, if you want.”

He has to resist the urge to say, “ _Back where?_ ”. No…that wouldn’t be fair, or even honest. Not when he was his own _house_ now, complete with a killer appetite and ability to survive the 415’s chilliest nights. Eddie’s thoughts slip like sand through his fingers. Did Venom even know what this world would think of their existence? Did they even care? Maybe he’d figure that out later, now that later wasn’t some abstract concept he had to juggle in-between sniffing for shelter and bumming smokes. All he has to do is just survive the next few hours.

”Ed?” Mary tries, again. She starts to drive slower. “What…do you want to do?”

Eddie swallows hard. He needs to answer her, tell her it’s okay, but his stomach is churning worse than his last binge session. His alien ripples beneath his skin, filling his mind with confused browns and queasy greens.

”…Contrary, pull over for a bit, would you?”

”What? Okay, sure, hold on…”

The car slows down around the bend, at a photogenic spot to see the stretch of trees and houses dotting down the hill. Glen Park’s air hits him like the most organic slap to the face, earthy and still a touch chilly. Eddie kicks the door shut and walks over to the guardrail, leaning a hand on the metal. He sucks in some of that crisp air. Tries to convince the nausea to go back down his throat and at least wait until he’s heading back to Tenderloin.

“Ed?” The car door clicks open behind him. “Are you okay? Are you getting carsick?”

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t ride around a lot anymore, is all. Just gimme a minute.” He swallows thickly, then flaps a hand over one shoulder. “I mean it, I’m okay. Just a minute.”

“ _Yyyou’re not okay, Eddie_.” It’s been calm the drive over, still satiated from the union, but it was just a matter of time before it decided to talk about his mood. “ _Yyyou need more than a minute_.”

“Trust me, I know.” Eddie covers his mouth and gulps it down, even though his stomach is doing its best to push it up. “I know.”

“ _What can III give yyyou?_ ”

Eddie coughs once, then twice.

“I appreciate it. I really do. Just…not something you can fix.”

It rumbles dark disagreement, but sinks down to dormancy in the low of his body. A surrendered battle to the war. He’s grateful, anyway. It hasn’t been _nearly_ as argumentative these past few days, certainly less high-strung, and he’s going to need that stability to push through the afternoon. He’s survived being hit head-on with a car, witnessed a spaceship crash not five blocks away from him…isn’t that something? That’s _got_ to count for something. A little meet-and-greet is _nothing_.

”…Ed?”

She’s fidgeting by the car door, attempting and failing to tuck stray curls behind her ear. Eddie gives her a thumbs-up.

”…All better!”

Mary makes as if to go to him, then pulls back and just opens the driver door. It’s probably for the best. He doesn’t want to ruin this future good memory by throwing up all over her nice plaid peacoat. She turns on the radio again, to a suitably dismal pop song that sounds like it’s made out of sugar. When they pull up in front of the house the nausea comes right back, though it has the decency to stand in line behind a vague, floaty sort of amazement. …It’s been a _while_.

Last time had been been on the Fourth. With Anne. He thought he’d been invited, because that’s what Tobey and Mary _told_ him on Facebook, and when he showed up might as well have been a prank turd on the doorstep. Guess they thought keeping quiet on the matter would’ve saved him the embarrassment. All it actually did was put him on the spot and force him to explain himself awkwardly in the foyer with a gift in one hand and the other holding his wife’s. It’d been one of the worst days he’d had in a while…and that was _after_ his legendary fuck-up at the Aeronaut.

Eddie feels old _and_ new mortification grow inside him like a tree. First it crawls up from his toes all the way to tickle his hair. His symbiote shudders and sends him a peeved green.

“ _What **is** that wretched sensation?_ ”

“I think…they call that secondhand embarrassment, slimy.”

“ _Disssssssssssgusting._ ”

“Yeah, it’s not fun.”

His stomach lurches at a sudden thought. Wait, wait. Carl and Claire weren’t here _already_ , were they?

“ _This is a peculiar shade. Not quite fear. Not quite apprehension. There is little we can’t do, now, and III see little reason for it. Explain._ ”

“It’s…complicated.” Eddie mutters. “Best way I can put it.”

Mary doesn’t hear them. The second she parked she ran inside, fussing about and bending down to snatch things up off the ground. Last-minute spring cleaning, right on time. Eddie steps inside and tries to hold off on breathing the air as long as possible. That’s what always kickstarted all the memories. He’d rather a pinch to the arm than a slap to the face. Didn’t matter he’d only lived here for a few years. They’d been some of the worst, so they stamped a whole lot clearer once they finally came around. Mary tugs out a box filled with side pillows, the tags still dangling off them.

”Sorry, sorry, it’s still…I ordered a few more things, just to spice things up a little-“ A pillow drops to the floor. She bites back a curse. “Ed, can you-“

“I got it.” Eddie picks it up and sets it on her precarious pillow tower. “Place is looking pretty nice, to be honest. Very nice.”

”It needs some accessories, though. After cleaning up I’m still…” She sways a little. “…Woah. Anyway. I’m still lacking some things. More rugs or…paintings or something.”

”You could always fill it up with doilies.”

“Bleh. We’re in enough debt as it is. We don’t need those.”

“Yeah. Awful little things.” Eddie agrees. Mary cocks her head and gives him a funny look over one shoulder. He points at a little aluminum art piece by the mantle. “So what’s that?”

“Oh. Found it at a yard sale. Actually, what do you think? It feels pretty nice, it’s just a little musty still…” She suddenly gasps. “ _Shoot!_ I forgot, they’re already _here-_ “

Eddie’s stomach scrunches up again as she rushes off outside, that same pillow bouncing off to hit the floor again. He shuffles from foot-to-foot. …Hell in a thousand miserable, shitty little baskets. Could he put off going up to them and doing some overtime work? No, no. That’s…he came here to finally catch up on all that missed time. Not retreat beneath the metaphorical bedsheets and tug the blanket over his head. Still…Mary doesn’t need him…right _now_ now, does she? He leans down and picks up the misbegotten pillow. Maybe he could just…spruce up for a few minutes. Look useful, but not _too_ comfortable, all in one go-

”Sorry, sorry, I just had to pick up-“

”It’s fine, ma’am. You can calm down. I’m just about done.”

…Oh. It’s just the contractor. Eddie turns on one heel and promptly heads outside. He can already see where the lawn’s been messed with – it’s lush and green enough, but there are a few sorry looking holes sticking out like holes in a Whack-A-Mole. Even then…it’s still neater than he remembers. Hardly a yellow patch to be found. The fence doesn’t have a new coat of paint, but the missing stakes have been replaced and the rosebushes surrounding the foundation are full and healthy. Mary turns to him with visible relief when he makes his way over (arms still full of pillows).

”Ah, right. Mr. Mason, this is my brother, Ed. Er, Charles, but he goes by Eddie…”

”Wait.” The man looks between them, brows pinched low beneath his cap. “…You’re related?”

Ah. One of these. Eddie slaps on a polite smile and (gently) throws an arm around Mary’s shoulders.

“Of course, sir. Can’t you see the resemblance?”

Mr. Mason coughs and mutters something about not trying to seem rude, gesturing at his clipboard that he’ll check back with them in a few minutes. Mary stares around her little pillow tower with a weary frown.

“…Hate it when they do that.” She mutters, once he’s out of earshot. Eddie gives her shoulder a squeeze and a (very gentle) shake.

“You’d think they’d learn.” He scoffs. “Come on. Don’t let him get you down. Gimme a smile.”

Mary sticks her tongue out. Eddie shrugs.

“Close enough.”

”So. While he’s still patching up the damage, in the meantime…” She leans in to whisper, “Mind helping me out in the _undestroyed_ part of the backyard?”

Mary runs off to finally put those pillows away. Eddie finds himself the nicest patch of dirt to kneel down and observe her garden. He studies the rows of tiny squash just starting to round out, the bushes of (what smells like) mint or some similar herb. This is her kingdom. Eddie reaches through the dirt, feeling for weeds. Phew. He spends so much time pounding gravel and huffing car exhaust it almost feels surreal digging his fingers into good, old-fashioned soil.

”Still looks pretty good.” Eddie says when she returns, eyeing the shriveled cherry tomatoes. “’Cept for those guys. Probably could use a little love.”

Mary clucks her tongue like a worried mother and drops down into a crouch.

“Ah. Right. It’s just been…so busy. Haven’t had time to catch up on my seedlings. They should pick up again with a little extra water...” She pushes her toolbox at him. “Mind helping me set new stones for the weeds?”

If anyone would know, it’d be her. Eddie takes the tool – no need to give a crap about dirt with his symbiote’s built-in bleach stick – and does what he’s told, digging and packing dirt for a new row of rocks. The hour passes by both slowly and quickly, the garden, surely enough, looking even better with extra attention. He tugs out a few weeds, watches as Mary’s carefully trims off shriveled stalks and plucks off dead leaves. After what seems like forever his sister’s shoulders finally unclench. Her brows knot together once in a while, not with chronic stress, but a gentle sort of concentration.

”Gardens really are your little island away from the world.” Eddie murmurs, tugging at a stubborn weed and dangling it from his fingers.

”Pretty much. You know, they’re proven to reduce anxiety. You can always stop by and garden here, if you want.” Mary lifts her curly bangs from her forehead to let a breeze through. “All I remembered you doing for stress was snapping photos or jogging around the block. Before you left, anyway.”

Eddie stares at the wrinkled weed. The dirt clinging to the roots.

“When Dad disowned me, you mean.”

Mary tucks a curl behind her ear. It pops free again.

“…He said you left. That you couldn’t wait to leave, actually.”

“Yeah.” Eddie tosses it into the pile and goes back to digging, even though the soil is feeling well and truly clear now. “That’s _his_ story, anyway.”

Another tuck. Another pop. She watches his handiwork as he makes short work of the hard ground.

“…You never seemed happy living with us.”

Eddie pushes the spade in, grinding it as best possible with nowhere else for it to go.

Mary called him almost two years ago.

It was about Claire. She’d been sent to the hospital under the presumption of kidney failure and both sides of the family were having a tough time footing the medical bills. A story as old as America itself. Eddie hadn’t spoken to Mary for _years_. Not since he turned eighteen and was given one last birthday present: a proper disownment after becoming a legal adult. Of course, if they were getting _technical_ …he’d been disowned in everything but paper. He’d sent Claire the occasional nice message on social media, once a few years had passed and he’d entered college and there was enough time to pad out the bitterness with distance. It wasn’t anything, though. It was nothing, in fact.

Mary called him late at night.

It’d been just after he’d been released from the Laura House. He’d drank himself into a coma, needed his stomach pumped, then had to spend five and a half weeks there under the watchful eye of the staff. He’d been so sick he didn’t even need the paperwork.

PAWS had been _hell_. Floating through his days in a cloudy, irritable funk had been the closest he got to a break, compared to the agonizing headaches and tremors. Once he’d been deemed fit enough to leave he lingered instead, hovering in cigarette groups and lounging in the backyard, because he didn’t really have anywhere else to go. Eddie didn’t recognize the number – he later found out, to his complete mortification, she’d asked Anne for his contact info -- and had picked up on the third ring. Even Mary’s voice had been a stranger’s. His sister asked him to help spread the word so they could crowdfund some help for Claire. She’d known he went into journalism and thought he could use some connections to get their case more attention. The closest Eddie came to being able to call himself a journalist after his fall was writing clickbait microcontent about conspiracy theories and trending celebrity garbage.

Mary called him and it all came tumbling out at once.

Stomping all over her crooked little flowerbeds and blaming it on the dog. Pulling her hair and telling her it was ugly. Spilling her favorite juice on their father’s tablecloth and letting her take the blame. Coming up with an entire alibi to sabotage a family dinner she’d planned with her mother, just so he could be the center of attention after winning a football game against a rival school. Every crude insult when she was in elementary. Every last passive-aggressive remark and soul-crushing slur when he was a teenager and starting to pick universities. Telling her she was too stupid to make anything of herself, unlike _him_ , track star and straight-A student who would, eventually, _finally_ , be the apple of his father’s eye.

There wasn’t a good-bye hug. Not even a letter. Just an empty house when he hastily packed the last of his things, and the choking radio silence that followed on his heels when he carpooled and went to sleep on a friend’s couch.

Nineteen years after he left…and he hadn’t forgotten a _thing_. If he could recall it plain as day? She no doubt had a _much_ worse photo album to look back on. Over the years he’d developed the habit of praying to God for forgiveness every single night. He would beg him to show him just a _shred_ of mercy for all the shit he put her through, tacking it on the end of every prayer no matter what it happened to be about, a signature scrawled into his very skin and more permanent than his fourteen tattoos. Even then, it hadn’t been enough. Not when she still didn’t know how fucking, fucking, _fucking_ sorry he was for putting her through all that. All that abusive, miserable shit…for the favor of a father who should’ve known better than to pit his children against each other.

He remembered it all and, fuck, he apologized for it _all_. Mary hadn’t said a word the entire time, even when he finally ran out of words, and for a few somber, heartstopping seconds Eddie thought she’d hung up.

Until he heard her sniffling on the other end.

It’s one of those…startling, vivid memories. The ones that pop up like a picture book, crystal clear with every detail in place. The old bunk creaking beneath him in the Laura House’s attic, shit for his back and too lumpy for more than a nap. The winter gloom pouring through his side-window. Flipping off Vince when he complained about his volume on the stairway. They’d wept like babies and talked for nearly five hours. Eddie used up the rest of his month’s phone bill that night, but he didn’t regret it. Not when he’d _finally_ planted the seed of a long overdue friendship with a good person who deserved a better brother.

”Hey, Ed, you thirsty?”

He looks up just as Mary gets to her feet, letting her gloves plop next to him. The heat doesn’t feel like much right now, but she’s already got beads dotting her brow, curls turning limp. It’s hard to say yes, when she’s working hard enough as it is, but she’s the kind of woman who feels best when helping others.

”Ah, yeah. Thanks.” Eddie grins. “I definitely didn’t drink my minimum eight, that’s for sure.”

”Well, you’re in luck. I have some iced tea made with the mint leaves I grew here.” She pats his shoulder. “I’ll be right back. Stay put.”

Eddie watches her pick her way across the half-finished yard.

“…Slimy?” He turns back to his work. “…You ever regret anything so much it feels like a hole in your heart?”

“ _III don’t have a heart_.” It reminds, the color dim and smooth. Gardening and anxiety must hold some weight, because this is the most relaxed he thinks he’s ever felt it. “ _…But III know this hue_.”

“Yeah.” He turns around and looks down at his dirty hands. “…I’d been her demon. Don’t ever want to go back to that.”

“No offense, but my job’s not just hammering nails.”

”Oh, oh, I know that, I’m just not sure-“

Mary and Mason aren’t talking very loud, but this always was a quiet neighborhood. That’s one _patronizing_ tone he’s taking with her. Come to think of it, that’s probably the same guy she complained about a while back, when he’d been shopping for Julie and Iris. Eddie scowls when the memory of a sunburnt pigeon half-stuck on the gravel makes his stomach _rumble_ instead of curling.

” _It’s not much different than yyyour pizza._ ” A pop of bright red. Of dark laughter. “ _Greasy, crunchy and very, very savory_.”

Eddie grimaces.

”That’s…a bigger difference than I care to explain.”

” _Yyyou felt fine enough._ ” The pale salmon threading through feels almost like a shrug. Eddie grits his teeth. “ _Like with that man-_ ”

”Put a pin in that.”

Eddie gets back to his feet. The symbiote’s red chuckle darkens again, right in sync with his own. Seems like Mary’s having another candid disagreement. It wasn’t just once she brought up how irritating these men are to talk to. When the typical arrogance of men collides with the near-obsessive snobbery of having a niche. …To think, he almost misses it. He barely crosses the yard back over and it’s clear she can’t get a word in edgewise.

”You hired me to do a job. That’s what I’m doing. You don’t need all this. It’s just a lot of work that you probably won’t maintain.”

”Of course I will, I’m taking care of my parents-“

”What’s going on?” Eddie sticks his hands in his pockets and does his best to affect the cheerfully clueless older sibling. The contractor looks relieved to see him.

”Sir, can you please explain to her that her garden is better off being halved and sectioned off so she can do less maintenance throughout the week? I understand she _likes_ it, but it’s really too much work…”

The symbiote bristles beneath his skin, feeding off his irritation and it threatens to show up as a very nasty scowl. Eddie sucks in a deep breath and leans back on his heels, taking a moment to just scan the backyard and make it look like he’s taking this blowhard seriously.

“No, no, I hear what you’re saying. Sure. That’s just not _quite_ what I’ve heard in exterior design, though. What do they say about hardscaping, again? Gardens fetch a pretty lovely ROI, last I checked.” Eddie flicks his chin at Mary’s quaint little set-up. “Not just flowers, either. Squash and tomatoes, I think?”

“Yeah. Yeah, easy vegetables. Cherry tomatoes, onions.” She shifts, clearly uncomfortable and trying her best to hide it. “…Tea. Herbs. Simple stuff like that.”

“Well, look at that. See, I work in the city. People get tired of the smog and lights. They want a slice of that nature, especially when they get that degree or have that kid and start looking for a home.” Eddie leans forward with a knowing grin. “I also might be a little biased because I can’t grow shit.”

“Ah, yeah. You got a point. It’s not easy, uh…farmwork and all that.” The guy’s caught a little off-guard. As he should be. Mary glances sidelong at him, quietly grateful, then heads back inside. Eddie scuffs his shoe on the ground and pretends to notice something or another.

“ _Should have fed hhhim dirt_.”

’ _He doesn’t even deserve that._ ’

” _Well. If yyyou won’t eat hhhim, then a second option will suffice._ ”

The contractors are just about done, heading back to their trucks and muttering amongst themselves. It, in the meantime, wants to explore. It’s starting to chafe from the inactivity. Never let it be said Eddie Charles Brock was a stranger to compromise. He follows his symbiote’s curious orders, giving it mild control as it steers him around the porch, the backyard. He goes from inspecting behind a refrigerator to rummaging through the garden again. It was never all that great at hiding how curious it was.

“ _So many shiny things. So many old and young things. Some taste of yyyou_.”

“Ah, yeah. Some of these were mine. Not much left, but…”

“ _Why don’t yyyou take ttthem back?_ ”

“Don’t have a place, remember.”

“ _Store them. Stash them_.”

“I’m not a squirrel.” He bites back a chuckle. “Things get lost, things get worn out. After a while you just have to move on. You really _don’t_ have childhoods, huh?”

“ _No. Progenitors neither guide us nor help us stagger through infantile primaries. We are born whole and capable_.”

“You still have memories, though. Simpler times, right?”

“ _Some. Symbiotes all originated from the one. As the one split themselves again and again and again, we retain shreds from the beginning. I remember other symbiotes and things they’ve done and there…may be symbiotes who remember mine_.”

“Genetic memory? …Wow.” It’s kind of hard to wrap his head around. Okay…impossible, more like. “Wait…you said ‘the one.’ _The_ first one?”

“ _Yes_.”

“You remember the very first one of your species?” He knows it hates when he repeats, but… _hell in a basket_. That’s insane! The green shifts curiously from red to green. Smug and blunt, coalescing as one.

“ _Of course_.”

“Ha. Okay. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say symbiotes probably don’t have religion, then?”

“ _Only the hosts. To yyyou III am a demon and an angel. How quaint._ ” His skin twitches curiously. It’s seeping out of him, trickling down to the garden. “ _Perhaps even to plant matter and roaming beasts III was something of the sort._ ”

”Wait, you can latch onto _plants_ , too?”

Eddie casts an eye over one shoulder, but Mary’s still inside and the contractors are long gone. It snakes down his arm and wraps around a fat, fluffy flower in the little square beside the veggies. The whole thing turns shiny and black, like it just got dipped in shadow despite the sun bearing down against the back of his neck. Eddie laughs when a face spreads on the very top; two white eyes and a wide, fanged grin.

”You look like one of those little flower critters from that game. The ones with the teeth. Zelda? No, no…” He snaps his fingers. “ _Pokemon!_ Oh, Miles would’ve killed me for mixing the two up.” His heart sinks when he hears footsteps approaching. “Slimy, okay, we’re done.”

It slides back up through his fingers, as sullen as a child. Eddie’s heart drops right down to the dirt when he sees the aftermath: the flower’s wilted, brown and shriveling.

”Uh, the flower-“

” _III took its essence. We need all the sustenance we can get._ ”

“No, you don’t get it, you _have_ to fix it.” He hisses, only to immediately change volume when she steps within earshot. “Mary, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“Oh, no…” She drops to her knees and peers close. “What _happened?_ ”

“It…” How the hell does he explain this? “I’m so _sorry_.”

Mary watches him for a moment.

“You...don’t need to apologize. I must not have noticed how unhealthy it was…”

He’ll learn his way around the place in due time. It’s small. He’s got plenty of unhappy childhood memories to guide him around faster than a Google Maps session. Eddie pokes through the cupboards. He can already tell whose diet is whose. The vegan stuff is definitely Claire’s. Mary couldn’t even go pescatarian. Eddie slinks into the kitchen for a sliver of quiet and something to do. There’s nothing to do. Place is too clean. Not fully lived in yet. The feel of him just a few feet away is a pressure on his back. Pushing his head down. Worse than a pissed-off alien taking his body over.

“Charles.”

His stomach shrinks. The alien turns to ice in his veins, instantly wary.

“…Hey, Carl.” He runs fingers through his hair. “Long time no see.”

Gray five o’clock shadow. Dry knuckles and reddened nose. The man’s wearing a sweatshirt he’d never thought he’d see him wear, there’s no cigar dangling from his lips, but everything else is the same.

“Because you don’t exactly come over and visit.”

Like a loose curtain the whole day slides down and slumps into a rumpled mess on the carpet. Eddie runs a compulsive hand through his hair and hastily edits all the words on his tongue. …Well, shit. He never visited…because he was never _wanted_. There was always something he should’ve done or something he should’ve said and eventually just dropping off a package became too much effort. Then Claire got sick and his presence only made things _worse_. Then-

“Not as thin as I thought you’d be.” Carl says, breezing past him to hang up his coat. Eddie shifts his weight carefully, his symbiote coiling uncomfortably in his gut.

“Why would I be thin?”

“Because of that ridiculous diet you stick to?” He runs a tired hand through greying hair. “You never ate like a regular person. Whatever works, though.”

The day changes again. It’s like a magic act that still hasn’t shown its hands. Claire is sitting on the living room sofa; she’s bundled up in what looks like three shawls, the wear-and-tear of the hospital stints showing more in her eyes than on her cheeks. Eddie shuffles from foot-to-foot, trying to work his brain faster well before she looks up.

“Hey, Claire. Looking good.”

“Charles.” God, he wishes they would stop calling him that. Just made him think of work or aliases. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“Uh, yeah, was just…free.” He laughs and shrugs. “Just one of those days…right?”

Claire’s smile is small, a little stiff. She shifts a little to better look out the window. …Shit. Crap. _Hell_. He didn’t remember to grab her those hypoallergenic flowers! What Mary had asked him about so many weeks ago. Shit, shit, _shit_. His scruffy mug was the furthest thing _possible_ from a present.

”Charles.” Carl calls from the kitchen. “We actually have to go in a little bit, but come here for a second.”

He obeys, because what else is there to do? The symbiote nestled inside his every nook and cranny disagrees, and not at all quietly. Eddie leans in the doorjamb. His father isn’t smoking in the kitchen, because he stopped ever since Claire was diagnosed, but the smell has a way of clinging.

”Are you going to be coming here often?”

Probably not. He wants to, or _wanted_ to, but he can’t take much more of sweaty palms and bad memories around every corner.

”Sure.” Eddie shrugs his free shoulder. “If…you want me to.”

Carl scrubs at his mustache, fingers lingering at the corner of his mouth before falling. The smell of tobacco sits in the back of Eddie’s nostrils, anyway. His throat. His _everything_. The alien’s question bubbles up from deep inside him, a confused and tense flicker, but he doesn’t have the presence of mind to explain.

“Well. If you are, I was going to mention. They picked up the case again. The hospital that took care of your mother before you were born.”

Eddie’s mouth slowly sinks open.

”…What?”

”Yeah. A few months back, actually.”

…He waits for it. Shoves his hands deep into his pants pockets and _waits_ to hear about the fateful day that tore up an entire family. A baby that was closer to a bomb. Still blasting everything to bits just by existing. Existing wasn’t enough. That’s what Carl told him. A man had to earn everything in this world and just being born meant nothing. The symbiote is silent. For once he wishes it weren’t. God, he’ll take _anything_ –a snide remark about how sensitive he was being, a question about Carl’s accent, a demand for food, _something_ – than being all alone in this.

“Multiple cases have been, ah, brought up. Seven, to be exact, though the reason they didn’t show up _sooner_ is because…well, you know. One person thought it was personal illness, someone else didn’t have enough money to hire a lawyer. Same old routine.“

Eddie nods automatically. His heart starts to hammer. It wasn’t him. He didn’t…he _didn’t do it_. He knows the answer to this already, of _course_ he does, but to hear it. Just to _hear_ it.

For thirty-eight years of his life he thought he killed his mother. Tore something on the way out into the world, put too much stress on her body, _something_. Something _he_ did. Logically it made no sense, but tell that to a kid whose entire world began and end with a single approving word on his Dad’s lips. Maybe Carl would finally say it, decades after the miserable fucking fact. That it wasn’t him. That it was someone else’s fault or a horrible accident. Maybe both. Maybe Charles could be forgiven and Eddie could be welcome at the table for the first time… _truly_.

Carl twists his dry hands together, looking off in the same bit of nowhere Claire was.

“…You’re going to be at the brunch, right? Mary told me you were helping out at the house.”

“I was. I mean, I am.” He looks down at his hands. Shaking. He balls them into fists and clears his throat. “Place is looking real good. Going to start paying for itself soon, just about.”

“Hm? I suppose. You a contractor now? Or do you just pen pieces about the real estate market?”

“I…haven’t been writing much. A little, but…mostly volunteering.”

A grunt of acknowledgment. “Sounds like a waste of a good degree. You know you can always go back to school. Take out a loan, if your credit’s held up. I know a few people you could talk to.”

”That’s…that’s probably not going to happen. I mean, I’ve thought about it, but right now…”

”Just a suggestion, Charles. Anyway. I need to go find Mary.” He pats him on the shoulder, once, as he walks past. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Then he’s out of the kitchen, and he’s alone.

Eddie stares at the floor, all the words a hot, suffocating lump in his throat.

“…It w-wasn’t my fault.” He mutters, too low and far too late.

Eddie walks over, leans his elbows on the counter and grips his hair, pulling at his scalp so hard it’s ready to pop off his skull. He breathes. In and out, in and out. One, hold on the inhale, two, hold on the inhale, three. He doesn’t lean back up until his heartrate has slowed down properly. The symbiote is churning slow colors in his mind. Muddy and dark and hard to pinpoint. It’s not sure what to do about a situation like this. For the moment it seems more human than him.

“ _Dissssssgusting_.” The symbiote says, so suddenly he startles. “ _Hhhe is no home_.”

‘ _I’m the disgusting one. That’s what you should be thinking_.’

“ _III don’t_.”

‘ _…that makes one of us_.’

It’s a short visit. For all of them.

Claire needs to visit her clinic again, still not out of hot water, and wherever she goes, Carl does. Eddie knows he should be grateful, but he can’t be under his roof another minute longer. It doesn’t take longer than a minute for him to cobble together an excuse to head off, citing the library and the rapidfire job market as to why he can’t rest too long. Mary probably sees right through it. He insists on taking the bus back, because the breakdown is coming, and he makes up an excuse that he has errands that need doing. She sends him off with a little bag: it’s filled with teabags and smells like a happy afternoon.

”Made these from my garden.” She laughs, though it’s tired and wispy. “Just some simple herbal stuff. Good for relaxation and anti-anxiety.”

”Relaxation and anti-anxiety, huh?” Eddie grins and holds it up. “I know someone who would love to try this.”

“Yeah. So…you know you can come here anytime, right?” Mary holds her elbow. “Not just when they’re around.”

“Thanks, Contrary.” It’s time to go. He smiles down at the grass and mumbles, “…Love you. I’ll call, all right?”

Mary's curls sway and bounce in the breeze, as if they’re waving farewell, too.

“Love you, Ed.”

* ~ - ~ *

The concept of later can go _fuck itself_.

Every single itch in his brain, the one he spent painful years rebuilding into some semblance of normal inhibition, is beaten down with the fervor of a curbstomp. Maybe he can go another shitty, demoralizing day without a sip. Another few hours, some other month. The Laura House had stressed recovery to be an elephant tackled one bite at a time. That’s nice. That’s Great. _Fuck_ that. He needs a drink. _Now_.

Of course, this is exactly when his alien roommate decides it wants to be opinionated again.

” _Eddie. What are yyyou doing._ ”

“I’m the fucking parasite. Me. It’s my fault.” Eddie mutters under his breath as he sidles and pushes through the evening crowd. “I was a virus before I even drew _breath_ , that’s how terrible I am. It’s my fault. Why not? Makes sense. I did it.”

The nearest corner store is just what he needs. His spare $15 from cards should be enough to last him the night, if he goes for the right brand.

” _Yyyour chemistry is a mess. This beloved nectar of yyyours will hurt even more than normal._ ”

“Relax.” Eddie hastily scans the back shelf’s bottles, then reaches out for the cheapest. “I’m just having one. Just to calm my nerves.”

“ _III know yyyou better than most. One will turn into two will turn into three_.” A dark pop of red. “ _No_.”

In a blink…he can’t move. … _Damn it._

“The hell’s your problem?” He tries to grab the bottle, uses every last ounce of his strength, and he might as well tried to eat his own ears off. “Just one drink, come the fuck _on!_ Just _one_.”

“ _No_.”

“What the fuck do you know, huh?”

A shuffle scrapes nearby. A customer has tentatively taken a bag off the rack and scurried over to the front counter. To them, it’s just him. To the glass it’s just him. The sweaty, disheveled, haggard middle-aged man. There’s more to it. No there isn’t. There’s _never_ more to him. Perhaps there is. This goddamn _alien-_

“Get off. Get _out_. You’re _done_.”

Eddie storms back out into the night. He doesn’t bother to keep his voice down.

“You lying sack of crap. You said you wouldn’t control me!”

“ _III’m not controlling yyyou. I’m keeping yyyou from harming us_.” Control returns to his body. He can feel the sensation die away, those inhibiting little pins and needles, but there’s no relief. Only cold anger.

“It’s _my_ fucking body and what I say _goes!_ ” Eddie snaps, stumbling into whatever alleyway or nook he can out of pure instinct. “I said not to!”

” _Our body._ ”

”No, _mine!_ ”

Does he want it to prove a fucking point? That’s one skill he hasn’t had to cross off his bullshit resume yet. Eddie wildly searches the ground, then leans down and snatches a shard of glass probably dropped by some other alcoholic. He drives it into his arm. The symbiote bends inside him, then floods out in a black mass and _snaps_ back so hard the blade goes flipping into the air. Then a black tendril snatches his wrist and holds fast. Eddie struggles. _Writhes_ against each knot of rope, trying to tear it, _trying_ to turn his anger into something fearsome. He fights until his arms are burning and he’s out of energy and he’s on his knees. Blubbering and snuffling like a child.

“I’m sorry. I’m _sorry_ , slimy. That’s not me.” He sobs. “That’s not _me_ , this isn’t _me_.”

“ _Yyyou’re sick_.”

Yeah, he’s sick, all right. Sick in the _fucking head_ for ever bothering to keep breathing after he fell out of his mom’s cunt. No, that’s not what it means. The alien’s just its usual bundle of face value. It twists its rippling neck like it’s trying to get a better look at the sweaty, leaking failure breaking apart on the ground. It leans down not to eat him or berate him, but…lick his face. Mopping away the snot and tears.

“’m a fucking parasite.” He snuffles, shaking and dizzy. “Shouldn’t have been _born_. Doctors should’ve dropped me on the floor and cracked my head.”

“ _Yyyou are not a parasite_.  _Yyyou are a home_.”

Eddie’s face screws up tight. He shoves his face in that slippery, silky black mass and cries some more, because he didn’t realize how badly he needed to hear it until it was said. His alien curls back in him, save for its head and neck, now content to nuzzle his cheek in a way that reminds him more of a dog than a person. That’s fine, though. It’s…it’s good.

“Could you cure alcoholism?” He asks, when words have returned to him. It’s now the dead of night and it seems this alley was the bunk of the night.

“ _Inhibit the areas of your brain that lust for the drug, yes. Yyyou called it…discipline_.” The symbiote slips back inside him. “ _So III will not. III will be here for yyyou and make sure nobody interferes with yyyour healing_.” When he doesn’t answer it echoes inside of him. A reverberation of feeling, nudging him back into reality when his body threatens to go numb. “ _Why are yyyou so kind, Eddie? Why do yyyou reach shorn fingers into the jaws of hate?_ ”

“Because it…it makes sense.” Eddie sighs, shakily, and wipes at his (very clean) face. “’Sides. Not like I don’t tell the jaws of hate to stop biting the hand that feeds it.” He pauses. “…What was the metaphor, again?”

A tiny thread of salmon pink-orange responds, like a firework streak in the night sky: its version of a chuckle, however faint, and one he responds to wetly.

“Hey, um.” He asks as he huddles on the cold gravel in a half-ball. “Can you do me a favor?”

The pink-orange hitches with a suspicious teal.

“…Can you turn into a blanket?” Eddie follows up quickly. “I know you can keep me warm, it’s just…nice to have. Since the motel’s gone and I don’t want to be at Mary’s…”

It darkens into a soft blue.

The symbiote seeps out of him, slippery as water, and grows thicker until he could be forgiven for thinking he’s swaddled in wool. When he shifts beneath it the surface shimmers, not unlike the glittery surface of the ocean. Eddie burrows his nose into the bunched up fold between his fists, curls up tight and tucks his feet together, until the only part of him poking out into the open is the top of his messy hair.

“ _We did not become great to be meager_.” It whispers as he drifts off. “ _These scurrying, twisting lives…III see and III learn, but this much is true. III know this now. As long as yyyou are mine then this all won’t be. III will **protect** yyyou. Even from yyyourself._ ”

* ~ - ~ *

”Morning, dude.”

”Morning. You got a free paper?”

”Nah. All out. Lemme give you a coffee, though. You look like you could use one.”

He must look truly pathetic after last night to get something as precious as a free cup of coffee on-the-clock. Eddie accepts the free drip gratefully. He finds himself a square to stand in inside the café, little more than a hole-in-the-wall joint bustling with businessmen and hipsters on their bike commute. He sips, and ignores stares, and thinks.

Break it down. Sort it out.

One minute his symbiote’s murmuring chromatic feedback in his mind. Snickering at a voracious child begging for a snack. Then the words pop into fireworks. Erratic. Ecstatic. Sticking the hairs on his arm stick-straight. His head whips back up to see a pretty woman sitting at the next table over, smiling prettily and with blonde hair almost as long as Anne’s.

” _Good to see yyyou again_.” She smiles, almost as wide as a symbiote’s. “ _Yyyou look hungry. Why don’t yyyou come to mmmy place so we can catch up proper?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Venom is alive and loving it.
> 
> Eddie is still coming to terms with his transformation, even as he gets back to life as usual and visits his sister to check on the development of the house. The symbiote is _thrilled_ with the union, though it doesn’t quite take its host’s hang-ups about eating human beings and having only _some_ control over Venom all that seriously. Eddie wonders, briefly, about Miles and his consistently strange behavior.
> 
> Mary is haggard and stressed by all the little and major details in her life, in need of a little support. It’s revealed she and Eddie had a very tumultuous relationship as kids, with Eddie bullying her extensively and ending up disowned by both his mother and father. He regrets it deeply and is doing his best to make up for lost time, though even more bad memories show up when both Carl and his mother-in-law, Claire, show up. He and his father share a terse conversation, in which the latter confesses his lawyer has picked up the personal injury lawsuit concerning his late wife. Eddie, deeply scarred from his father’s years of blame regarding his mother’s death, is stunned…then angry and _hurt_ when his father still doesn’t apologize.
> 
> Although he’s now able to transform into a terrifying creature of unknown strength, he’s never felt weaker and more lost. Eddie has a bad breakdown and relapse after he leaves, attempting and failing to get drunk. The symbiote, for once, doesn’t berate him, but comforts him throughout the night.
> 
> The following morning they’re greeted by a strange woman who’s clearly not human…
> 
> \--
> 
> I developed the _worst_ love-hate relationship with this chapter. It was too long, then too short, then it needed to be posted yesterday, then it took another week (alongside all the _other_ shit I was doing), it wasn’t very good no matter what…bleh.
> 
> I’m still not happy with it, but it needs to be _posted_. I love this series, wordy and meandering though it is, and I don’t want to associate it with negative feelings. I'm thinking of ways to make the next chapters shorter and more brisk. There's been plenty of build-up. We've already hit a major turning point. This whole thing's drafted...just all a matter of getting this monster _done_.


	13. Don’t Touch That Dial! Ten Little-Known Classics That Refuse To Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of alcoholism, discussions of genocide and a mental breakdown.
> 
> Chapter Song – "Mu$e" by $k

”Hey, you know how to find us! Send a moth into the breeze atop the tallest tower! Ha ha, I’m kidding, here’s a card.”

It’s the _perfect_ day for business. What better way to encourage haircuts than with weather so hot a full head of hair seems like an outright curse?

Nob Hill has been one riproaring success, all up _and_ down. Once the afternoon rush picked up a few folk have actually set down their bags and asked for trims on-the-spot. Good business and good advertising for foot traffic in one fell swoop. He and Darryl spent a frantic fifteen minutes cobbling together a space next to the park, filled mostly with stay-at-home mothers and their screaming children. It was a good damn thing Darryl always kept a few of his supplies on him for ‘emergencies’ (read: situations where one of the many poor souls in the 415 needed a trim before a job interview). Not the most _professional_ set-up, sure, but even San Francisco liked to market its ‘rustic’ side. When the occasional skeptical murmur rolled in? He made sure to crank up the charm.

Maybe his career wasn’t much more than a dump, but if there _was_ anything he could count on himself to do, it was chatter someone’s ear off.

”A picture says a thousand words.” Eddie said to the pinch-faced brunette, holding out his phone and flipping through the photos they’d gathered in the past hour and a half. When she still hadn’t caved he’d ran fingers through his own hair and put every last ounce of his glory days into a wink. “I can also testify.”

He still hasn’t crested the hump of schlubby middle-aged adulthood, clearly, because she’d ended up sitting down for a ‘small trim’ that they ‘better not screw up’. Thirty minutes later her entire demeanor changed like something out of an informercial.

” _Vanity proves an ever reliable currency._ ” The symbiote had whispered, tickled red-orange at the woman’s flip-flop from doubtful to converted. “ _This resource will only expire when yyyou all do, apparently._ ”

The alien hadn’t found the whole excursion boring, more _curious_ than anything about the big fuss over hair. These past days their thoughts have continued to bleed into one another’s, little-by-little. Eddie would find out today (in-between flagging down passerbys and offering Darryl encouragement) it was kind of _fascinated_ by their physical forms. How humans changed in ways they couldn’t always control and were constantly shedding themselves, sometimes sloppily, sometimes artistically. Everyone was always a little interesting to _someone_ , he supposed. He’s certainly never looked at bangs so… _magically_.

”It feels good to look good.” Eddie offered as explanation, looking down at the light jacket and running sneakers he asked the alien to turn into. “Mind over matter.”

” _Yyyou most certainly mind yyyour matter._ ” It had chortled in response, in a joke he didn’t entirely get but was pleased to hear.

That wisdom wasn’t changing anytime soon. Fifty-three people later he and his buddy are enjoying coffee and bagels, happily exhausted after a day that’s raked in a little over $1,000 in good, old-fashioned tourist impulse dollars. There isn’t a _single_ business card left, either, which Darryl has been talking about for the past thirty-five minutes. Eddie takes another bite of his bagel and glances at his phone. Forty-two. Well. His good friend certainly deserved it. He raises his face to the sun and soaks in the glow, even as it burns up the already sensitive skin on his neck. _Ahh_. He’s going to be thinking about this day for a while.

“Thanks again for letting me use your phone, man. Portfolio’s gonna look _sick_.” Darryl sighs, slurping up the last slivers of coffee separating the ice cube water from the bottom of the cup. The early evening breeze has dried up the sweat on his brow, but his pin-covered hat still rests by his side, damp spots yet to fade. “You sure those got sent to my e-mail?”

“I’m sure.” Eddie wolfs down the rest of his lunch and nods his way. “I’ll send them again. Here.”

His phone may be crap, but Darryl’s was somehow even _worse_. Just looking at it made him want to say a prayer. It’s a cheap Nokia, with a cracked screen and a sliver of something or another eternally poking out of the back. It was a sign someone was poor beyond reason if they couldn’t even front with a decent cell. Eddie slides through what few filters he has to give the hair photos he took earlier a little extra pop. Nothing extraordinary, no, but he could still snap a _mean_ angle. Even that brunette looks slightly more than a reality show background extra.

“You know, we’ll have to get you one of those, uh, steel shipping containers. Had to write a few essays on it during college, back when that big craze was ‘sweeping the nation’…” Eddie air-quotes, because that’s a phrase he wishes he could put into a blender. “…but it’d be _perfect_. We could even get a small one you can pull around on wheels. Decorate the sides all nice. Not sure what we’d do about security, other than just locking it up real tight when it’s not in use…”

Darryl listens to him quietly, rolling the remaining ice cubes around in his cup. His fire from the day has fizzled out a little. Eddie thinks it might be because he’s tired – and why wouldn’t he be, after _all_ that work – if not for the way he’s looking at him. He’s staring, with this funny little half-smile on his face that makes him look older. Not sad, but…wistful. Kind of. Eddie rubs at his chin.

”…Something on my face?”

“You and all your friends and family have free haircuts for life.”

Eddie blinks and leans back.

“ _What?_ No, come on, man, you know I’m good for it-“

Darryl reaches over and takes his shoulder. Eddie stiffens to attention, though the plaintive frown doesn’t leave his face. His friend’s eyes are glinting something _fierce_.

“Lifetime guarantee for saving my life.” He snorts and rubs at his nose, careful not to poke himself in the face with the cup’s straw. “Poetic, right? Just, please. Least I can do, man. _Least_ I can do. All this, it’s…it ain’t easy, even when I enjoy it, and you…shit. I wouldn’t have gotten _half_ the customers today if not for you.”

”That is _not_ true.” Eddie rebukes, as softly as he can. “You got killer presence. Trust me. I’ve chatted up execs with whiteboards and sketch programs who can’t inspire as much…” He flaps his hands in the air futilely. “… _harrumph_ as you do. That makes sense, right?”

”Ha, not even a little.” The smile loses some of its old edge, that familiar glitter returning to his gaze. “I’ve learned to speak fluent Eddie Brock. I get you, though.”

Darryl looks like he has more to say, eyes wandering for a second to nowhere in particular, then just hugs him tight. Eddie hugs him back, letting him linger for as long as needed. He’s been in this sort of position before. He gets it.

“You…ah, shit, I can’t do these.” He mutters when he pulls back. “You’re the guy with the speeches in his back pocket, not me.” The man scratches at his beard – getting a little longer – and smiles crookedly. “It just…feels good having someone stick their neck out for me. Didn’t…well, you know what happened with her and… _ah_. I don’t know. I don’t know, just…wasn’t all that sure I’d be the kinda guy people would want to do that for, you know?” He takes in a sharp, shaky breath and rubs the back of his neck, reaching down for his hat. “Thanks, man.”

Yeah. He gets it.

They get round two on the bagels – because why _not_ \-- before calling it a day. They agree to throw a mini-party at The Gulf once it opens up again in a week, then split up near the tortoise fountain. Eddie lets the chatter of a warm, sunny weekend slide over him as he strolls toward his next destination. It’s another one of those long, introspective walks where he’s technically going parallel instead of forward. Thinking about all the crooked paths that led him to this point, with his career long since decomposed and an alien kicking up its feet in his body.

“ _III can give yyyou any haircut yyyou desire, yyyou know_.” It says, by way of conversation now that his attention isn’t preoccupied. Eddie rubs at his bangs with a grin.

“It’s the _principle_ , you know.”

“ _Oh, III can give yyyou that, too_.”

It’s being playful. Only way he can tell is the same sarcastic, contrary words are fringed with a bubbly pink. It’s kind of nice, truth be told. This…easygoing, chill thing they’re developing. Eddie wonders for a moment what his child self would have done with an alien buddy that could be taken anywhere. The symbiote is sniffing around his thoughts with more of today’s calm curiosity, though with a tinge of teal suggesting it’s not sure where all of it’s coming from.

”Well. Fact you’re still here is pretty cool.”

” _III could say the same about yyyou_.”

Eddie grins again and looks down at the ground, even though he’s alone. It’s a statement about as ambiguous as the symbiote itself. The thoughts kick up again, though, not happy about being postponed. He jiggles his leg as he waits at a crosswalk, ignoring the stares of a little old lady who might be older than the city itself.

Darryl hadn’t been a great guy. Laid hands on his wife, just once, and that’s all it took to have him kicked out of the house and denied visitation rights. The depression hit him hard enough to turn him to whatever would numb the pain. Somewhere between sleeping on couches and short stints in jail he seemed to figure something out. At the time Eddie had been flabbergasted to find out his kindly hotel neighbor had been a shitty deadbeat, but that was just it, huh? Most people don’t start off being great. Eddie knows first-hand.

” _Humans embrace simple things_.” The symbiote murmurs. “ _Simplicity…is a shade III have tried to avoid._ ”

”Why?” Eddie blinks, taken off-guard.

No thoughts bleed in, either. Whatever it doesn’t want to share, it’s working _hard_ to keep it away. Eddie’s heart twinges. Well, sheesh. He doesn’t want it to think he’ll _judge_. One, God was much better at that sort of thing. Two, he was in no place to do so. Three…well, it just wasn’t a nice thing to do. As the world around him transitions from kind of upscale to _really_ upscale he makes it a point to shift priorities.

“So, we’re almost there. Your other seemed kind of glad to see me.” His voice is still throaty from talking so much. For a second he flashes back to the good ol’ days at The Aeronaut, talking a mile a minute at the best of times. “…I’m _colorful_ , apparently?”

“ _Very_.”

His symbiote hums happy agreement, sentiment rippling from the tips of his hair all the way down to his feet. Eddie wriggles his shoulders as it winds through the muscle, then sighs as what little tension had built up between his shoulder blades bleeds out.

“Mm.”

“ _Better?_ ”

“Yeah.” He pops his neck, then rubs at it. He lets his hand linger, petting the symbiote as much as the now conspicuous lack of pain. “Thanks, slimy. So, how do you feel about this? Excited? Nervous?”

“ _Yyyou already know_.”

“Well, _yeah_ , still. It helps to talk about it. You were kind of…freaked out, huh?”

“ _III don’t freak, as yyyou so eloquently put it, but it was…not something III expected to see_.” It shifts beneath him, like a cat settling into a pillow. “ _Ttthey will explain_.”

And about fucking time, if anyone asked him.

” _Nobody did_.” The symbiote purrs. “ _But III agree_.”

Eddie wipes off his hands when he comes to a stop on the pristine sidewalk, squinting up at his destination. Yeah. This house is _exactly_ what he’d expected from Potrero. Fancy, quaint little 80’s construction right on the curb and meticulously designed to be the most walkable creation in all of history. Thoughts of Anne aren’t cropping up quite so hard anymore. Might be one of the few good things in this stuffy place.

“Behave yourself.” Eddie sighs, taking a careful step back to look all the way to the top of the home’s perfect shingle roof. “Or…that’s your line, I guess.”

“ _Exactly. So behave yyyourself, Eddie, because we are going to return to the presence of what many of yyyour short-lived, fleshy, depressed kind would view a god_.” A long, smug pause. “ _No pressure_.”

Eddie snorts and walks through the front gate and up the front steps. He spends an extra few seconds just scrubbing his shoes off on the mat before ringing the doorbell. He doubts this ancient symbiote would care overmuch, but it’s just good manners. Good manners existed in space, right? An affirmative red pops in the back of his mind at that. Right. Well. Eddie starts to wipe his hands off again, then looks down to contemplate the unusual sweatiness of his palms. This might just be the first time he’s gotten performance anxiety in decades.

“Pretty ritzy.” He scoffs. “I’ll have to apologize for tracking _dust_ into the air.”

When no one answers he attempts to peer into the window, with no luck. Quality drapes. After glancing around he tests the doorknob…and blinks when it opens. The scent of a well-maintained house gushes out to meet him, as pristine as a tour through Ikea. The carpet is white as freshly fallen snow, the reclaimed wooden furniture situated against cotton sectional sofas and chairs in a clash between the modern world and nature. The only break in color are thin green plants delicately pressed into the corners. It looks less like a house and more like a set for a catalog.

”Guess we’ll just have to consider that a cheap welcome-“

“ _Please make yyyourself at home_.”

Eddie bites back a yelp and whirls around to face…nothing. Odd. He frowns, looks from side-to-side…then down, to the little girl standing just outside the foyer in the prim, white doorway leading into the living room.

“ _There’s plenty of food in the fridge if yyyou’re hungry. Do everyone in this household a favor and steer clear of the probiotic yogurt, though. That is a coveted favorite of Jolene’s_.”

Hell in a basket, it’s _weird_ hearing that subtle symbiote drawl come out of a chubby little face. She’s a tiny thing, only an inch or two taller than Kaeki and with twice as much hair. Instead of a shoulder-length black bowlcut, though, it’s a thin trail of blonde all the way down to her waist. Her white stockings are barely distinguishable from her skin – more washed-out than a ghost -- and her plaid dress suggest some brunch party is either starting or wrapping up. Probably wrapping up, if he’s here. Eddie gapes stupidly, all the words in his head puttering out the second they reach his mouth.

“ _III can see yyyour questions already. What a lovely reunion this will be._ ” She claps two little hands together, grinning from ear-to-ear. “ _Adjust yyourselves, feed yyyourselves, then come upstairs to the master bedroom. Yyyou’ll know it by the gilded framing_.”

Gilded framing. Eddie crinkles his nose. Well, _there’s_ something worse than doilies. Without another word the girl turns and trots through the living room, then around the corner. He waits until she’s out of view, then mutters:

“…Your friend is inhabiting _children?_ ”

“ _So it seems_.” Its colors mutate and bubble like the surface of a boiling pot, from blue to purple to green and back. “ _Not the first choice of an older symbiote, but then again, it hadn’t been the most graceful of landings_.” It prickles with his next question, shifts to a more consistent teal that’s only barely annoyed. “ _Juvenile beings can have symbiotes, Eddie. Think of ttthem as akin to yyyour guardians, with far more protection to offer_.”

“Can the child _pick_ their symbiote, though?”

“ _Do children choose tttheir guardians?_ ”

Eddie opens his mouth, clamps it shut. Opens it again, clamps it shut again.

“Well, ttthey-“ He fists his chest, coughs. “-they _should_ be able to, sheesh.”

He rubs his hair with a huff. Another conversation for another time. Break it down. Sort it out. He needs to get some food in their system after that long walk. Prepare for what’s no doubt going to be a _long_ talk, to boot. Eddie steps gingerly on the white carpet ( _pristine_ , even his clean shoes leaving a hazy imprint). The kitchen sparkles from every corner and the fridge is filled with more food than the corner market by The Gulf. He hums and peers at the fresh vegetables, stacks of cheese and seemingly _endless_ butter variations. Not that he was going to go quite overboard here – it’s weird being given free reign of the home by a little girl, alien notwithstanding – but this family probably wasn’t going to miss much. …Then again, maybe they would. Upper-class folk were like Smaug that way.

“Free real estate.” Eddie mutters, shrugging and happily pulling out rye bread, lettuce and lunch meat to start a sandwich. Been _far_ too long since he was able to make one of these in a kitchen. He clucks his tongue at the sight of pepperjack cheese and adds it to the pile, then dices up some olives (which he hasn’t been able to eat outside of pizza).

“ _Horseradish mustard_.” The symbiote commands with a warm and hungry orange. “ _And more cheese_.”

Eddie grins.

“You got it, slimy.”

A chop here, a slice there…and it’s _picture perfect_. He steps back and takes a moment to admire it – it’s towering a little, like a proper sandwich should – then devours the results in record time. Then he nabs an apple and a handful of trail mix, because he can. The happy tingle of a full stomach spreads through him as he rinses off the cutlery, still when he jogs upstairs. Maybe there’s also the thought he’s been poor for long enough that a full plate of food gets him higher than a needle in the arm, but, eh. Eddie jogs up the stairs and glides through the long hall, spotting the gilded doorframe in an instant.

”Moment of truth.”

He wonders if he’s going to spend this entire time talking to a little kid that looks like she walked out of The Shining. Eddie chuckles to himself as he opens the door, takes a second to soak in the classic interior…then does a double-take that would do a sitcom _proud_ when he sees who’s sitting by the far window.

“ _O’Sullivan?!_ ”

Of _all_ the places. Of all the _people!_ There he is, in all his thin-lipped, hairline-receding glory. The man is dressed in business casual and looks just as punchable in person as he does on the billboards, reclining in a leather chair in view of the street like he’s posing for a photoshoot. The worst part of it, though…is the fact he’s looking at him and smiling. _Really_ smiling, not that stiff little twitch of the lips slugs in suits pulled when the cameras were out.

“ _Ahh, it is **good** to see yyyou two_.”

Eddie snaps his mouth shut for the third time, then swallows back the thousand and one things he’s always wanted to say to this shitstain’s face. …Right. This was…a _host_.

” _Let’s keep this private, shall we?_ ”

Not-O’Sullivan stands up and snaps his fingers. The automatic blinds pull closed, sliding across the massive windows until the four of them are draped in a soft afternoon shadow, the outside light trying and failing to peek around the corners. Eddie blinks once, twice…then the darkness fades away to show the room as clearly as if the lights were on. He sends a mental thank-you to his symbiote, right before his sight hones in on O’Sullivan when he changes.

” _If yyyou’ll excuse mmme for but a moment…_

The crooked politician is disappearing beneath a choking red mass, oozing in thick candlewax ropes to twist around him in fold after shimmering, wrinkly fold. It swells. It _grows_. Eddie takes a step back, looking up in inching increments as the alien rises like baking bread. It’s one thing to transform himself. It’s _another_ to see it happening to someone else. Only when it brushes the ceiling does it stop, out of what seems more like a polite consideration than limitation.

” _Or, rather…_ ” A long row of teeth spread in the dark. “ _…us._ ”

“Nice to meet you…” Eddie starts, then clears his throat with a smile. “…again.”

“ _The pleasure is all ours_.”

Okay. Time to do this right. Eddie holds out an automatic hand, then inwardly winces and pulls it back…then puts it out again.

“I mean, I don’t know how symbiotes do this, it’s just polite…” He watches his hand disappear in one of the symbiote’s massive claws. “Eddie Charles Brock. Call me Eddie.”

It’s like a goddamn _dinosaur_. Towering, yet stooped, with shadowed white eyes and a wide fanged mouth traveling down its neck to taper off. Or, _they_ , he supposes. Even though the implication suggests O’Sullivan has anything to do with this union, which he… _really_ hopes isn’t the case.

” _Call us Carnage._ ”

Either symbiote unions had a knack for scary names or he just happened to run into the more… _intense_ aliens. So far, so foul. The symbiote bristles beneath his skin, a quiet warning to behave. Eddie scrunches down on his lips. That big dinosaur head (more wrinkled than their Venom’s, more aged) tilts to one side.

“ _Speak yyyour mind, Eddie. There are no secrets between us_.”

Oh, he can’t help himself.

“Why the hell did you pick _that_ guy?”

His symbiote _cringes_ , hard enough to make his ribs feel like they’ve turned into an accordion.

“ _Show some **respect-**_ “ It snaps, colors scraping like sun glare. Every last hue promptly snuffs out when the other interjects.

“ _Calm yyyourself. It is a valid question from a valid man_.” Carnage settles back on their thick haunches, swaying their head from side-to-side. Assessing. “ _O’Sullivan is a temporary host. There can be no true kinship with one of hhhis ilk. III have not been on this planet overlong, but hhhe and hhhis family act the part of leeches among yyyour kind, consuming all in tttheir path be it precious land or finite time. Hhhe is more of a parasite than III could ever be, to be disposed of when a more sensible and lucrative alternative presents themselves_.”

It’s a good response. Just what he wanted to hear, technically, but… _God_ , something still tickles at him. His own symbiote had to hop between a few people before settling on him, out of a necessity to survive. Still…they can create this powerful form! That _must_ mean they have some sort of bond, right? And bonds were _rare?_ Then there’s the whole thing with the rest of the family being involved…shit, the _family!_ Eddie’s mouth twists, trying to organize his thoughts as they butt up against his journalist’s instinct.

“ _Ahh. Yyyou compliment yyyour symbiote so surely_.” Carnage is untroubled. If anything they’re kind of delighted, chuckling wide enough for their black tongue to flicker behind their teeth. “ _Such suspicious, curious teals. So analytical, so curious! III have answers for yyyou, Eddie. Answers to questions yyyou haven’t even asked. Oh, III am so very glad to see yyyou_.” Its chuckle spreads out blood red into the room, too heavy to be compared to smoke. “ _III cannot say the same for O’Sullivan, who has been submerged in pretty ire ever since yyyou both made a mockery of hhhis stone likeness._ ”

Eddie blinks, then grins.

“Oh.” He snorts. “Awesome.”

” _One of our finest moments._ ” His symbiote attests, a smug, yet sharp ooze beneath his skin. It’s still not happy with his suspicion. It’s also far too distracted with this meeting to focus on it. Thank goodness for small blessings. Their arguments would certainly look a lot less charming in front of a mentor. It’s either his own stupid face betraying him or the fact this other can smell their emotions like a barbecue on the breeze, because they keep going with an uncanny accuracy.

“ _Yyyou were startled by the host children. Rest assured ttthey are unharmed. In fact, III have taken it upon mmmyself to start eliminating the youngest one’s malignant growth, as well as managing the occasional mental fits of the wife_.” They have no eyebrows, but the ridges above their eyes raise, nonetheless. “ _We provide._ ”

Eddie blinks.

“Wait, wait, the kid’s got _cancer?_ ” His heart sinks. “Aw.”

Well…shit. He can’t be stingy over _that_. Come to think of it, that’d explain why she was so pale. Eddie chews on his tongue – much to the symbiote’s consternation – and mulls it all over.

“…All right. Okay. Let me start from the top, just to make sure I got this all sorted out. The ones at the Pier. That whole family, why…did you have so many hosts? And why’d they react like that?” He holds his hands out to pause any interruptions, even though Carnage is as steady as a statue. “They all…had this collective stroke, they had red stuff coming out of their mouths, their _eyes…_ ”

“ _It is never a perfect process, the blend of symbiote and organic._ ” Their white eyes don’t look at anything in particular, but he feels pinned by their gaze. “ _Such is the way of yyyour relationships, as distant and unpredictable ttthey are._ ”

Eddie keeps his face attentive as best he can, even though he’s pretty much an open book in this room. Christ, symbiotes are huge fans of correlation fallacies. Be that as it may, that still didn’t answer his question about the multiple hosts thing-

“ _What is yyyour conviction toward this one?_ ” Carnage asks, suddenly, and Eddie finds himself off-balance again when he realizes they’re not speaking to him. “ _III can harbor a few guesses, but III would rather hear it through yyyour teeth._ ”

A not-quite-foreign sentiment washes over him, a rich purple so dark as to nearly be black. Devout. Intense. Proud. The magnitude of it overwhelms him. He’s not sure whether to be thrilled or bowled over.

” _Hhhe is precisely what our collective dreams of._ ” His symbiote responds, not through his mouth, but through colors and feelings that puff out into the room with every breath he takes. “ _Simple and erratic hhhe seems on the surface, but beneath the bluster is a ground consciousness with a fervent glow. Even within the planet III saw these hues rarely._ ”

Well, shucks. Eddie grins sheepishly and scuffs his shoe on the carpet, ignoring the smudge that follows. The emotions don’t stop growing, though. They keep swelling, deep from the very pit of him, it seems, and his next breath washes out into the room as dense as fog.

” _Hhhe is **mine**._ ” His alien states, and what feels like a hundred arms curl around him from the inside. “ _III found hhhim, III earned hhhim, and III will take care of hhhim, by any means necessary_.”

A thin trickle of sweat rolls down his spine. It’s that same tone he heard in that cramped alleyway, when the alien showed up after he’d been hit by a car and pulled him back together. Carnage folds their huge, gnarled hands together, purring approval from every pore.

“ _A proper, convicted response. Just what III hoped to hear, after it all. There is ever hope yet._ ” Their voice dips, then, to a low, warning rumble, even though the curve to their eyes never leaves. “ _…Be careful yyyour bond is carefully maintained, though. The more ambitious yyyou grow, the closer yyyou become…the more murky the blend should yyyou tip over._ ”

It’s as ominous a compliment can get. Before Eddie can pin down funny feeling number twenty Carnage speaks again, a sharp, eager pitch to their voice pinning him all over again.

“ _Let us begin this dissection of this beautiful thing. A proper bond shares glimpses and endless reaches alike. Yyyou have glimpsed its thoughts and dreams, Eddie. What did yyyou see? What did yyyou feel?_ ”

”Uh, good? Weird? _Lots_ of things.” God, how the hell would he sum up these crazy months? He puffs out his cheeks and blows out a sigh. “Phew. Like I’m high, if we’re being entirely honest, but with none of the crash.”

” _Surely._ ” Carnage says, simply, and licks at their smiling teeth. “ _What else?_ ”

“Shit. Like I can do anything. I mean, I’m not exactly _lacking_ confidence, right, but sometimes shit gets hard and a helping hand…well, you guys are like the biggest helping hand. If it weren’t for my symbiote here I would be a greasy smear on the pavement. Or…” Eddie swallows. “…breathing through a new hole in my head.”

The symbiote’s purple shifts to violet, a somber, quiet blue pulling through like a cool pillowcase on a heated cheek. It’s a deep sympathy, one that makes him want to dive headfirst into it and forget the rest of the day.

”We saved each other’s lives.” He huffs. “…Even though I tried to stick it with a lighter.”

” _Clever, in retrospect._ ” His symbiote concedes. Carnage studies them for a moment, face impassive and tone just shy of wondering.

” _How lucky yyyou both are, and III am, for laying witness to such noble origins._ ”

Eddie tries a smile, but it shakes. Still not entirely easy to talk about, no. What else did they ask him? Oh, right! He snaps his fingers at a sudden thought.

“ _Ah!_ Dreams. Definitely had a lot of those. There was this one that freaked me out a little…a planet full of…arms? A lot of screaming? Like something out of a sci-fi movie, to be honest. A…horror sci-fi mish-mash.”

The delightful orange darkens. Dims into a deep, low maroon, close enough to violet for him to taste it on the tip of his tongue.

“ _Millions and millions and millions of symbiotes_.” Carnage says. “ _All dead. All lost_.”

Eddie goes cold.

“…What?”

He takes a step back, then another, as Carnage shifts. Their form melts, but doesn’t dissipate back into a human man, nor does it separate and pull into the space. It swells, then floats, like oil on water or mud down a slide, completely rejecting physics before his very eyes.

“ _…We were used and abused throughout the cosmos. Experiments there, playthings elsewhere. Unification was never our way, not for long, even when searching back through the linear branch. III was no different. Four hundred and fifteen different hosts, thousands of years, and only a mere, paltry few that had treated mmme with the dignity III deserve. III birthed forth another idea, ruminated upon it until it became sound. A new way for us to thrive, be freed from the necessity to bond_.” They wrap up into a ball, floating near the middle of the room. “ _A planet of symbiotes. A planet only for **us**_.”

Like a ball of yarn it threads apart, looping strings pulling out of the orb to float aimlessly, then knot together, then float, then knot.

“ _How could we manage, without the varied array of chemicals needed to keep us healthy? Not just any planet would do. We would need one free from wretched sentience, one still teeming with enough life for us to reinvent our own. III searched! III scoured. Hundreds of planets with the aid of mmmy host, who believed in the cause_.” A faint glow ebbs from deep within. No matter how hard he looks he can’t figure out what it is. “ _…how III miss hhher_.”

It unravels, then, and starts to spider through the air. Eddie squints, trying to liken it to something he knows. Spiderwebs? Only when they start to stretch toward the ceiling and crawl along it does he realize they don’t look like vines, but blood vessels.

“ _We combined with one another. Combined with plants. Lesser animals. Even nearby moons. Linked and linked and linked, like the arteries in yyyour simple, sturdy bodies, like the tree roots beneath yyyour soil! We breathed as one. Thought as one. A hive mind of a billion, a collective of millennia. Wholly new even in the vast reaches of the cosmos, yet nearly as old as life itself through sheer years_.”

“What happened?”

Eddie hunches back when the ball twists, _writhes_ , blood red flesh consuming itself in a sudden, horrible fit.

“ _…We went **mad**_.”

Fingers poke through it, hundreds-then-thousands, grasping and straining as if to free themselves.

“ _III remember much. III still do not know of the precise moment where our symbiosis took a turn for the worse. III think about it, every slippery second of every long minute of every abstract day, trying to figure out the mystery…yyyou are no stranger to obsession, III can see this much. Perhaps we were hungry and had drained the planet, in spite of our limited movement and cognitive stretches. Perhaps the planet was of a life we did not understand, one that twisted us, or rejected us. Perhaps it was simply the act itself…a symbiosis of symbiotes, never meant to be_.”

Light flickers inside, thundercloud brief, and he doesn’t want to look closer.

“ _Hunger ravaged some. Fear ravaged others. This III do remember. Some wanted out. Others pulled them back. It became a planet not of potential, but of chaos. One that affected the very gravity itself. Stars were pulled in, neighboring planets tilted off their axel. Too far and it ran the risk of pulling gravity apart, a potential chain reaction of long darks spinning and stretching to pull in galaxies. Yyyou might know them as black holes. These were far less forgiving…_ ”

The light grows brighter. Bright enough to light up the room, hot yellow, then white-

“ _We were found by…_ ”

Eddie grimaces and clutches his head, whines and shakes. It hurts. Oh, fuck, it _hurts_.

“ _…the closest approximation III can conjure up is The Glass_.”

It’s English – or some gibberish turned into Germanic gibberish turned into English – but even that comparison sounds wrong.

“ _An ancient foreign kind, many stretches from yyyour planet and galaxy. Ttthey fashion ttthemselves protectors of order and knowledge. Ttthey witnessed our aberration, our greatest dream and greatest failure, and saw fit to correct it_.” Teeth show in the mass, a mouth stretched in a snarl…or a howl. “ _The Glass tried to kill us **all**_.”

It’s too hard to wrap his head around. Millions or billions of symbiotes all linking together to make their very own _planet?_ Aliens capable of destroying an entire planet of…of _symbiotes_ , creatures that could turn into just about anything, survive just about anything. A living planet that could fuck with the very concept of gravity itself. No. He can’t compare it to anything. He’s been lucky enough not to be hit with the aftermath of a war zone, though even that comparison feels strange.

In spite of all he’s seen and heard, it’s only now he feels well and truly _afraid_.

“Do they…do they know you’re here?”

“ _As long as we don’t call…ttthey never will_.”

“But…how will you find other symbiotes if you don’t? Wait, wait…you…had a ship? Right?” The room mutates like a strobe light, his questions and emotions bleeding everywhere. “Were there symbiotes who didn’t want to be part of the planet?”

“ _Yes_.” Carnage’s black tongue flicks like a snake’s. “ _Ttthey were not spared_.”

“But…but why do you have all these hosts if this sort of thing was…bad?”

The alien inside him perks up at that. Right now they’re more bonded than when they literally fused to create a hybrid beast.

“ _A few host, and only a minor juggling act for mmmy ability. Knowledge is power, Eddie, and if symbiotes are to survive we need all that we can get. III learn. III grow. Trust that III treat each and every host kindly, even if ttthey end up incompatible with mmmy plans_.” It starts to congeal again, growing thicker and heavier into that humanoid form again. “ _III can see why yyyou two get along so well. Yyyou both are nothing if not incredibly convicted_.”

Carnage isn’t sharing everything. Years of interviewing cagey politicians practically made him a bloodhound for this sort of thing. Then again…the people on the pier, as messed up as the whole thing was, _were_ alive. The family here might even be better off. Not that they really needed it, with their money and connections, but. It all begs the question…would The Pack be better off with the help of aliens instead? Should _any_ of them be involved in this? His own life took a turn for the better ever since he met his symbiote, but how much of it was fact and how much of it was fluke?

“ _Yyyou crave answers, Eddie, and III will provide._ ” Carnage’s cheeks crinkle as they lean in, enough for their hot breath to ghost his face. “ _Mmmy other is cagey at the best of times, churlish and fierce, and yyyou are still clearly fumbling in the black. Shall III tell yyyou where III found it? The colors it spewed, what few it could manage…_ ”

A white pop of what feels like apprehension bursts in his mind, and it’s _not_ his. Carnage is offering to tell him how they met his symbiote. He’s curious. Fuck, he’s curious. It’s…also not something he wants to pry into. That’s just what got him into a world of shit in the first place, jumping the gun without thinking of other people. Eddie straightens his back and smiles.

“That’s all right. Let it tell me.”

The white dissipates and deepens, replaced by a color too dark for him to make out. It might just be grateful. Eddie wants to pat his chest or shoulder or something to reassure, then it hits him. He’s been asking all the questions! For a second he considers he might just have a new niche of interviewing alien creatures. The symbiote bubbles in him at the impulse, the first it’s done much besides watch and listen.

“ _Where are the others?_ ” It asks, straight to the point. Carnage leans forward, the colors around it growing saturated with interest. “ _Tempestuous? Riot? Shard? Ebullient? Tarnish?_ ”

“ _Patience. Yyyou have waited for mmme, but III have waited for yyyou, too_.” It grins in what can only be barely suppressed delight. “ _Let mmme witness yyyour bond_.”

Finally. Something simple. Eddie holds up a finger, then takes a few steps back, away from the bed and the door. His symbiote is all too eager, the desire to sink into that happy, mindless power already tickling into the tips of his nails.

”Ready, slimy?”

” _Ready, Freddie._ ”

Eddie closes his eyes.

They blend…

…and wake.

“ _ **Spectacular!**_ ”

What a delight. Carnage’s smile has grown _impossibly_ wide, dappled teeth creeping down the thick cords of their lizard neck. They creep on all fours like a predator beast, circle them again and again, looking up and down and all around. Their other is beyond impressed.

“ _Ahh! What bold, striking coloration. III had already sensed a striking split based on demeanor alone, but this confirmation, oh, it shivers rivers!_ ”

Venom puffs out their chest and _preens_. Rarity was never inherently a good thing, no, but in this case it’s clearly a boon! It’s the approval of a mighty other, a mentor and a friend both. They lift their chin and eagerly watch Carnage shadow them, inspecting their form from head-to-toe.

“ _Two stark shades, no gray. Not quite so common. Not with bonds leaning toward like than unlike. III have seen it, yes, but III have also glimpsed supernovas_.” They laugh deeply enough to shudder the floor. “ _Yyyou both must be quite happy with yyyour decision_.”

Something in Carnage’s tone lifts it to the surface. The symbiote dominates for just a blink, responding fervently:

“ _III am_.”

Then he does, a lick of human joy curling around the passion.

” _Hell yeah._ ”

Then they’re whole once more, it and he, indistinguishable even through their black and white. Venom stretches until its muscles quiver, yawns until its jaws protest with a physical ache. The hunger has hardly been touched by the food below, but right now they’re more ravenous for words than meat. They eye the four-post bed, then snort. Not _nearly_ filling enough.

“ _It is not easy, but it is fulfilling_.” They add, considering their oily black hands against the bright carpet. “ _We look forward to seeing others like ourselves._ ” They flick their tongue smugly. “ _In the loosest sense, of course_.”

“ _There are no others_.”

They blink, looking up from the carpet into the stretch of Carnage’s red face.

“ _What do yyyou mean?_ ”

“ _As far as III know we are the only symbiotes left in the galaxy_.”

“ _…What?_ ”

…How? The only ones? In the entire _galaxy?_ What a wretched joke. They may be fresh, but they weren’t insensate! No, that couldn’t be. That _shouldn’t_ be. They are complete, they certainly feel lovely and whole and powerful, but a thin crack in the stone has appeared. It spreads down, down, down, disrupting a solid foundation to _shiver_ contradictions. He is confused, stunned and saddened and still so curious, lovely sweet man that he is. The other half, it… _it_ is a hue unheard of. It is horrified. Rent. Bent. Shredded. Betrayed. Furious. _Lost-_

“ _That cannot be_.” They say- “ _There were too many-_ “ It says- “ _There’s gotta be survivors, come on, galaxy’s a big place-_ “ He says- “ _-it wouldn’t say such things without absolute certainty-_ “ They can’t- “ _-even it can be wrong-_ “ It’s too hard to stay- “ _Tell me you’re lying-_ “

Carnage’s good humor churns with something else. Their smooth wisdom grows dark. Bubbles and froths like angry water, fed up with their delusion, stretched to ripping.

” _Yyyou committed yyyourself to our potential, so keep yyyourself together!_ ” The whiplash snap of their yellow straightens their spine, even as they rattle, even as they crumble. “ _Tttheir destruction is absolute. Ttthey were merciless. Ttthey were thorough. Ttthis is no mere despondency III speak. Ttthis is the death III still **breathe!**_ ”

Carnage towers red and furious against the ceiling, their girth swallowing every last hue in the space. Venom hunches low to the ground. They had wanted to see these shades again so _bad_ , but now they burn like a supernova, blistering to the very corners of their surreal chromatic vision to shock the room and beyond into white.

” _Yyyou will do many things, except these as III dictate. Yyyou will not call! Yyyou will not leech! Most of all, yyyou will not **cower!**_ ”

They won’t. They refuse to. They’ll _try_ , but now there’s nothing to strive for, no long dark to outrun with an endless beginning before them. They melt at the foot of this truth, puddle it into the rabbit soft pelt at their hands and feet-

-and Eddie is panting, wheezing, staring at his shaking hands and the utter liquid his symbiote has become. O’Sullivan is back and opening up the blinds to let the evening light in, blotchy and stiff-lipped as ever. He ushers them out the door and shuts it delicately behind them, seeing them down the stairs and through the living room and all the way to the front steps of the house.

” _Collect yyyourselves, then come back soon._ ” He hears the man say, arms crossed and smiling placidly. “ _We still have **much** to discuss._ ”

God, it’s like he’s coming down from a crash. Eddie stumbles down the front steps, only a thick hedge framing the walkway keeping him from hitting the ground in a heap. His stomach is churning horribly, head spinning and skin cold. So fucking _cold_...

”S-Slimy, Christ, what happened back there…” He pats at his chest, feeling at his fitfully beating heart. There isn’t a single color in his head. “…Hey. Hey, are you-“

Eddie jerks forward when the symbiote lurches out of him and _bolts_.

”Wait, wait, wait, _holy shit-_ “

Eddie _gasps_ , barely managing to catch his phone before it hits the ground. His clothes have slithered right off. He’s still got briefs and a tank on – he’s not having a repeat of last time – but he looks ridiculous, standing out on this ritzy street in borderline underwear. He stumbles away from the house onto the sidewalk, clutching his chest and sucking in air that doesn’t feel quite right. It’s not like before, when they first truly met back at his hotel room. Every thump of his heart feels weirdly shallow, his skin growing clammy without reason.

”God, not again…” He groans, trying to feel for where the slippery bastard dipped off to. “Where did you go…”

The weather’s warm enough many are out in their tanks and sneakers, though he does get a few glances because he’s sweating buckets and unable to stop swearing under his breath. God, and it was going so _well_ , too. About as well as a meeting with an ancient alien mentor and mastermind fleeing genocide _could_. God, he still can’t wrap his head around all that. It’s a wonder his symbiote lasted as long as it did, with all that. His phone jerks him out of his thoughts with a buzz, so sudden he nearly drops it all over again. Eddie hovers an automatic finger over the answer button, still looking across the street and through the trees, then clicks.

” _Charles._ ”

Eddie grimaces and covers his face. Oh, no, not now. Why _now?_

”H-Hey, Carl.”

” _You still coming to the lunch?_ ”

”Yeah, yeah, I am.” He huffs a laugh that feels drier than the air. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

” _Good. Mary’s looking forward to it. Everyone else is…well. It’ll be good to get together_.” The shuffle of papers. “ _Anyway. I wanted to talk to you about something. You got a few minutes?_ ”

”I…can it wait?”

” _Not really or I would’ve e-mailed you_.”

”Oh, yeah, right. Makes sense.” He pauses and puts a quick hand over the receiver. “ _Hey!_ ”

“ _We were supposed to be more_.”

The little overlook with a view of the park and city at large is thankfully empty. It also makes the symbiote slumped on the bench stick out like a sore thumb. Eddie pads up the stairs and steps carefully toward it, though it probably could sense him coming a mile off. His symbiote drips puddles on the cement, is in a constant state of melting, like it can hardly hold itself together. He thinks he might be witnessing grief.

“ _We were supposed to be great_.” It mourns, what few colors he can sense washed out and fading. “ _This wasn’t the end of it. This wasn’t supposed to be. III survived the dissolution, seventeen planets, three stars, The Glass, my wretched, filthy, brutal hosts-_ “ Its mouth snaps open wide, shows what seems like every last needle tooth in a snarl. “ _III survived! III survived it **all** , damn it **all** , and for what? For **what?**_ ”

” _Charles, who the hell is that?_ ”

”A…a friend, it’s fine, uh, I’ll call you later, okay?” He clicks it off before Carl can get another word in, ignores the lurch in his chest at _doing_ that, then holds out a hand quivering so hard he can see it. “All right, we shouldn’t be out here. Come here-“

It whirls as if to snap at him. Eddie wants to recoil from those crooked teeth, but he holds firm, staring it down, even as he still shakes from the aftermath of its departure. The symbiote growls, heaves and pants like it’s barely holding itself back.

“ _Yyyou will pull us down, all breathing things do, symbiotes are cursed and yyyou are the worst of ttthem all!_ ”

Eddie shakes his head, trying on a smile that feels stretchy and limp.

”Ha, you…you don’t mean that. Come on, buddy. You don’t…mean that.”

The symbiote is looking distinctly bizarre now. It’s leaning up in that not-quite-human shape, but there are odd angles jutting out, like some magnet toy that got beat to hell. It still wants to snap at him, he can tell, but it’s not. Not like he can judge it if it did. The uncomfortable memory bubbles forth, one of his alien licking his snot covered face clean while he blubbered on the ground after a string of insults and threats.

” _III am not human. III don’t want to be! This is not mmmy planet, this is not mmmy place…_ ”

“…That’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.” Eddie bobs his hand. “I’m your host, right? I’ll be human for you.”

“ _No!_ ” It shakes, snaps, not frightening in the least, but so _sad-_ “ _Yyyou are flesh and blood and remorse. A sad sack on a dying planet that talks too much and never stops lying_.”

Eddie looks down, swallows at the lump of hurt in his throat.

“ _…and III am a spiteful, shiftless, selfish little creature_.”

He looks back up just as it wilts. Going from melty to thin and stooped.

“ _…bitter teeth, bitter words, bad thoughts on endless rotation, shuffled from wanting thing to wanting thing like refuse. Mmmy violence can’t even be recycled. III was nothing and still am and…will be_.” It’s more painful than the insult. It had some shortcomings, but it’s never just… _given_ up like this. “ _The long dark was already in mmme…_ ”

His head’s still clanging around from all that info he got, but…he knew a hard fall when he saw one. Shit, wasn’t that just how they met? An alien running into the 415’s most successful shit-faced drunk and loser? Eddie watches it as it crumples, his heart pulling something agonizingly similar. It wasn’t too keen on sharing its dreams, but it just had one of the biggest shattered into a thousand pieces. If only it’d let him _help_.

“…Goopy. Buddy. Listen to me, okay?” He swallows. “New beginnings aren’t…easy. Picking up the pieces takes forever and you start to think it’ll never end, but…it does. The beginning ends and you get into the swing of it again and it’s _better_.” His hand starts to tremble, still holding it out. “Shit, you’re right. I am a lying, pathetic sack of shit. I’m…I’m _trying_ , though. There are things and people that make me want to get out of bed in the morning. Things and people that…make me want to never stop until I stop breathing.”

It’s listening. He knows it is, because the whites of its eyes leak over its dark face, dropping into the melted mess of its body like tears.

”It’s not the end. I…I can’t imagine what you went through, I won’t try to, but you have _me_. You have so much else to live for, so much else to try for, and…shit…I’ll _be_ here. You think I’m full of shit, I’ll be here, you want me around, I’ll be here.” The rest of the speech mangles up in his throat. He tries to swallow past it, but just breathing feels like an ordeal. Eddie drops his hand down to slap weakly against his thigh. “…I don’t have much, but I’ll _be_ here.”

It’s getting a little dark. Good for hiding the symbiote still too out in the open for comfort, but bad news for a guy without pants on. Eddie shivers and rubs at his arms, though he’s sure it’s the lack of the symbiote making him cold and not Californian weather.

” _…III meant what III said, Eddie_.” It murmurs, leaning up until it looks like a little black arch. His heart starts to sink, then… ” _In the house_.”

The colors are so faded it makes him wonder if it’s just exhausted by it all. When it moves Eddie holds his hands out again, to catch it, at the very least…and his alien goes to him. It lays its head in his chest. Dribbles through his arms. Seeps back up halfheartedly, like sap in reverse, then dribbles again.

” _III don’t know how to nurture a good thing_.” It confesses in a dark blue nearly the same shade as the evening dropping in. “ _III never learned how_.”

”Well, then let’s start simple. Is this a good thing?” Eddie asks, pressing his legs together to help it puddle in his lap. “What…we have?”

It sighs, rolling one smooth white eye to look at him. The light from the streetlamp above turns on, then, and blinks stars into its inky form.

” _…Yes_.”

* ~ - ~ *

“It’s a wonderful establishment, _truly_ , but just not what I would consider…my style.”

”The style is pretty modern, it’s just the _tenants_. I mean, not that you would know, Carl, living where you do, _but_ …”

The poor woman in charge of the The Gulf has tried every trick in the book to get him to expend his energy on the place. No matter how many times he emphasized he wasn’t staying here, nor was he a health inspector here to give the place a spitshine, she keeps trickling new complaints in sideways. Well. He was nothing if not a _very_ good listener. It was essential for a position that was just as much about public resources as it was about fantastic science.

”There’s one tenant I’m a little curious about, man by the name of Eddie Charles Brock-“

”Oh, don’t get me _started_ on that crackhead.”

It’s an impressive rant. He briefly considers tapping notes into his phone, then just turns on his hidden mic and lets it record. It didn’t take much prior research to find out the man got quite the boot from society at large after a journalistic fumble, all the more impressive for an otherwise _spotless_ resume. He talks to himself, according to Deborah, which is par for the course. Makes friends with just about everything that moves and fucks for money, which is nothing far-fetched enough for a visit. When she goes off about the weird screaming and strange voices she heard in his room several times per week, though…

”You could get me in contact with him, yes?” He asks, punctuating the illegal request with a sweet smile. To his surprise she shows the first spot of hesitation in an otherwise heady conversation.

”You’re…not going to get him arrested, are you?” She frowns down at her chipped nails. “I mean, he’s _crazy_ , sure, but he also saved people’s lives when the place burned down. No joke, guy ran right into the fire, in and back out with Darryl, another tenant, just slung over his shoulders. Absolutely _crazy_.”

_Ah_.

”Yes, I _did_ hear about a motel fire. Could you tell me more about that?”

”I mean, it was all over the news-“

”Oh, I’d _much_ rather hear from you.”

Ah, the woes of the unheard. Deborah goes off on another tangent, only peripherally related to the topic at hand, and Carlton Drake adjusts his collar and observes the dilapidated little front desk with a smile.

_This place was going to be the perfect petri dish._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie and the symbiote are living their life to the fullest, helping Darryl out with providing on-the-spot haircuts for tourists up on Nob Hill. Eddie, in particular, wants to get the most out of his day before he meets the alien’s other: Carnage.
> 
> Carnage proves both a curious and menacing presence, inhabiting the local politician O’Sullivan and taking control of the man’s entire family, to boot. They’re more transparent than Eddie expects, sharing with him the history of their kind and what led both them and the Venom symbiote to crash land on Earth. They and a billion others had been used and abused for far too long by far too many hosts, eventually banding together under a collective desire to change their very physiology itself. They searched the cosmos for a vibrant-yet-uninhabited planet to call their own, linking together until they, quite literally, created a planet of symbiotes.
> 
> It broke their major biological rule, however: symbiotes can’t survive by bonding with other symbiotes.
> 
> The living planet ends up going insane, devouring other planets and even affecting the very gravity itself. Carnage’s intense veneer cracks when recounting the force that nearly wiped them all out, one they can only translate as ‘The Glass’: an implacable, mysterious collective with the ability to nearly wipe out shapeshifting, intelligent alien life. Eddie and the symbiote transform into Venom to display their growing bond, but promptly crumple apart when Carnage then reveals they might just be the only symbiotes left alive in the entire galaxy.
> 
> The alien flees, and Eddie chases in hot pursuit, interrupted only by a phonecall by Carl reminding him to attend the upcoming family lunch. He also wants to tell him something important, but the symbiote is found having a meltdown, mourning the loss of its kin and its dreams. Eddie ends up ditching the call to comfort it. They sit and talk to each other, nurturing what is a messy, yet trusting connection between them.
> 
> A new presence makes himself known across the city: a man by the name of Drake, someone with a keen interest in The Gulf motel…
> 
> \--
> 
> Back on the ball! Fuck, it’s hard to stay on this thing.
> 
> I _miss_ this fucking story. On top of focusing my time on original work (with the plan to pitch to publications) _and_ moving to a new place, this chapter was a lot of rearranging and mish-mashing my drafts. Especially since it has two villains showing an appearance. That said, I think it worked. I hope so, anyway! Feedback, as always, is _much_ appreciated. 
> 
> …and speaking of which, major love to anyone still reading this. Phew. It’s beefy and slowly updated, but I enjoy every second of it. I hope you do, too! There are twists and turns I still can't wait to share with you all.


End file.
